


SNIPED

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Porn With Plot, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: The Winchesters receive assistance on their case from a sniper.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [AUTHOR'S NOTE: First smut. Not my usual jam. I lost a bet. Writing this was included in the terms of said bet. Still hope you enjoy. -Nash]

Dean's face warped through a variety of expressions, then ended on a frown.

" _WHAT?!_ " he mouthed at me.

I felt my eyes narrow into a glare as I mouthed the first string of curses that came to my mind in reply, then turned back to getting lined up, prepping for the target, not bothering to gauge his reaction.

I needed to focus.

He'd bumped me, again. Which had made me jostle the rifle. Again.

 _Focus_.

Shutting one eye, I peered through the scope, stiffening up a bit as I locked into the mindset that made me so damn good. The wind had picked up a little more, so I mentally adjusted my earlier calculations. The target had already passed nearby once, but I didn't fire; it had been too agitated, too twitchy. I needed it casual. Perhaps even distracted. So I didn't begrudge the wind - it was probably stirring up the smell of the bait that had been tossed out after its earlier pass. Which is exactly what happened. I spotted movement just barely off to the right of what I could fully visualize through the scope.

_Nice little beastie. Come on over. Get lazy and complacent._

Dean was close enough for me to hear when his stomach rumbled. I didn't move a muscle. I'd had more than that distracting me in the past, god knows.

It was beginning to pass through the crosshairs. The target may have changed, but the routine remained old hat. Just another notch on the proverbial belt. And I still repeated my first instructor's mantra in my mind every time.

_At the ready._

_Finger on trigger._

_Breathe in._

_Let out._

_Now squeeze._

ZIP

Right through the cricoid. It stumbled backwards, hands reaching up to grab its throat. It didn't fall, stopped only by a thick bur oak. I'd loaned Sam my other earpiece. He was on the ground, amongst the trees. His voice came through to me sharply, just a single word:

"Wait."

I held up my hand to Dean, who was poised to run from our cover to meet up with him. I met his eye and subtly shook my head. Then I chambered another round, got back on the scope.

It had steadied itself, still gripping the wound with one hand, pushing away from the tree trunk with the other, but then it fell in a heap. Dean and Sam rushed it, arriving at almost the same time. I'd kept aim while they were en route, just in case. Soon I could hear in my ear that Sam was chanting something. Then Dean was impaling it with something.

And _I_ was pulling my earpiece out. I let it hang on my shoulder as I slid my case closer. Sooner I broke the rifle down, sooner they could take me home. When they got back over to me, they were clearly filled with relief and pride.

"Man, I thought we'd never nail it!" Dean said.

I paused, looked up and over at him slowly, raising an eyebrow.

He bothered to look a touch chagrined. "Well, I mean, _you_ , you technically-"

"Gotcha," I replied, popping the unused round and catching it, then tossing it to Sam. There was no risk of a detonation. They weren't my normal ammo.

"Thanks," he said, sticking it in his pocket. Then he said - "I mean, for all of it. Really. We couldn't have done this without you."

"You're welcome," I told him, now rushing through the breakdown, putting the parts back in my case carefully, but at lightning speed. "Not that tough of a shot."

"Uh, well, and I'm, um," Dean was trying to get out.

I kept packing.

"You know, earlier, I'm sorry about when I-"

I looked up again. "When you winged it after I specifically asked you not to bring your gun, and then we had to track it for five miles and I had to find a different little hidey-hole, even though that other one was damn near perfect, causing me to have to use a suppressor because we were so friggin' close?" I gave him a bright smile and batted my eyelashes, then let the smile - and the attention I was giving him - pointedly melt away before I looked back down, resuming my task.

"I'm gonna go pull the car closer," Dean muttered to Sam.

I knew how hateful I'd sounded, and I didn't care. He'd pissed me off. Jody had hooked us up for a reason: they needed a sniper. And Dean's attitude had not been subtle. It was clear how he felt about needing help from an outsider, especially from one who gave them direction on the best strategy to take out something that had stumped them for months. And maybe it was also because I didn't have a dick. Wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last.

"No joke, I'm seriously sorry about all that," Sam said after Dean walked away.

I was seriously sorry I'd agreed to do it on the house, as a favor for Jody. I was also seriously sorry I hadn't brought my own car. Nice as Sam was, Dean was a real pill.

Sam handed me the earpiece he'd used and I stuck it in one of the zippered pockets on the side of my pants. I followed suit, removing mine the rest of the way and stowing it as well.

"Eh, don't sweat it," I told him. "Good job going ahead and making the subsonic versions of... whatever the hell was in those."

Sam nodded, and he seemed to appreciate my praise; at least one of them was capable of accepting my expertise and following instructions. I fastened the case closed, grabbed the handle and stood, bringing it up with me.

"Mmmm," I involuntarily muttered, raising my free hand to rub the back of my neck, frowning. I hated being reminded of how old I was getting.

Sam raised his eyebrows at me in a questioning manner and reached out. I nodded and let him take the case from me. We began to walk out of the woods. One pro that came out of the new vantage point - it was a shorter hike back to the main road.

"Not used to staying in the same position like that anymore," I volunteered after we'd gone a little ways in silence. I'd gotten so bad at making conversation. Jody kept encouraging me to practice. Just like I kept my skills sharp at the range, I had to keep the people skills sharp, too, she'd told me.

I hated her sometimes, with her absolutely accurate advice.

"I can imagine," Sam replied with a little chuckle. "I know it's not the same, but these legs don't exactly fold up in tight spaces."

I nodded. I was on the tall side for a woman, but goddamn. He was a mountain. A lifetime ago, I'd have daydreamed about scaling it. 

I was still doing mini-stretches, rolling my shoulders backwards and forwards, when we arrived at the Impala. Dean, to his credit, had the trunk open and ready to stow the rifle case. And he'd gotten out bottles of water, set them on the hood. Sam was putting the case away and Dean was sipping his own bottle of water when I reached up, pulled out the two ponytail holders it had taken to wind all my hair up into a tight bun, helping it loosen and separate with my other hand as it fell.

"Ppppfffft!"

Sam looked around the trunk lid and I jerked my head, both in the direction of the front of the car. Dean had executed a movie-quality spit-take, now wiping residual moisture from his chin. He looked to me sheepishly. I felt myself just staring.

 _Yeah, the old shirt with patched elbows and holes at virtually all the seams, and the bulky cargo pants worn thin at the knees, all in camo, and the bonus of scuffed black combat boots to top it all off was suuuuper hot_ , I thought. I turned my head away, shaking it a little in annoyance, putting the ponytail holders on my wrist. Then I looked to my other wrist, flipped it, and saw the time. I cursed under my breath for what had to have been the eight-hundredth time since this never-ending godforsaken road trip had started.

By the time they got me back to Jody's to get my car, there was no way I'd be getting home anywhere near when I'd planned to. The mission was supposed to take us about a third of the way between Jody's place and theirs. Then we'd apparently missed that... _thing_... somewhere outside of Omaha, and now we'd ended up closer to Kansas than South Dakota. I had been with them going on two full days, tried to sleep as we drove through the night, listened to every syllable of every classic rock song that had ever been recorded, and I was done. Done. _DONE_. When I looked back up, Sam had clearly read me like a book, and he extended the only olive branch he had to offer.

"I'm getting in back this time," he told me, and since I could tell he really meant it, I nodded. He then moved to open the passenger side door for me, in the same attentive manner he'd had when taking the rifle. I have no idea what look crossed my face but he apparently read it accurately as well, because he slowly backed off, instead opening his own door and climbing in.

I went closer to the car, glancing quickly to the woods around us, up and down the road, checking our perimeter.

"Go ahead, hop in," Dean said, and I blinked a few times, coming out of my daze.

I looked across the roof at him and his faintly puzzled expression. "Habit," I said, then pulled on the handle and got into the car.

When we'd reached civilization, they stopped for food. In the drive-thru, Dean asked what I wanted.

"I'm good," I said.

"I mean it. Our treat."

"No thanks." I had been staring out the window and kept on doing so, opting to ignore Jody's advice. I wasn't in the mood to try and be charming and practice being a people person. Teamwork could suck it.

Dean kept quiet til reaching the speaker. Sam said his order, then Dean said his, and then the cashier said, "Will there be anything else?"

Dean reached over, gave the side of my thigh a tap with the back of his hand, and I looked over with an involuntary crease of my forehead at the touch. "You're sure you don't-"

Before he'd even gotten the question out, I'd unsnapped one of my pants' bigger pockets, pulling out one of those chalky, disgusting, protein-and-carbo-packed bars coated in fake chocolate. Then I reached down and picked up my nearly empty water bottle. I shook both gently with raised eyebrows and a fake, closed-lip smile on my face.

Dean Winchester had a listening problem.

Now he was almost glaring when he informed me, "That's the last of the water."

We stared at each other.

"Large of whatever's first on the list," I told him, then tossed the bar onto the dash and returned the water bottle to where it had been on the floorboard, clamped between my boots. And as I was leaning back up, I heard him say:

"Please."

I sat up poker straight and turned my head to face Dean. We stared at each other again. If he thought I'd blink first, he was sorely mistaken.

The scratchy speaker came alive. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't catch that?"

Another moment passed. Sam leaned up and craned his head out the window again, telling them what I wanted. The total was given, followed by the standard request to pull around.

We were statue-still.

"Um, Dean," Sam began.

Dean kept locked onto my eyes, steady as a rock. He was good at this. Not 1200 meter kill shot good, but good.

"We can pull up now," Sam tried again.

 _Take your little victory_ , I thought, breaking the stare, sitting back and gazing out the window once more. " _Please_."

Only then did Dean pull around to the window.

They were munching as we drove down the road. I hated the smell of the onions. I loved the smell of the french fries. I hated being such a stubborn mule.

"So, we have a decision to make," Dean said through a partially chewed bite of his burger.

Was he _actively_ trying to be gross?

He thankfully swallowed before continuing. "I'm not in the mood to drive all the way back to Jody's, then have to share a bed with Sam in her guest room," Dean began.

Okay. He was talking to me.

"I think the best thing to do is head to the bunker-"

I looked to him, aghast.

"-and we've got plenty of room, we can pick up a toothbrush for you when we stop to fill up-"

Did he not notice the big black bulky thing I'd thrown in the back floorboard when they picked me up? I was _never_ not prepared. There was already a toothbrush in my backpack. And a change of clothes.

And a Glock.

"-then we'll all be fresh daisies, get you home tomorrow. Whaddya say, Snipes?"

Oh god. He'd nicknamed me. Had my letting him win a staring contest actually infused him with enough bravado to try and make friends? Convince me to stay in what Jody had described as essentially a really large basement? I felt my lower back start to lock up from the internalized stress.

"I need to get out," I abruptly announced, trying to lean at different angles to adjust my position.

"Do you need to pee?" Dean asked.

"Do I wha... _what_?!" I was practically crawling up the side of the door now, planting a hand on the back of the seat, trying to lift myself, get rid of the pressure.

"I mean, you drank all that water, and I haven't seen you pee all day, and-"

My eyebrows shot up. "You're tracking my bladder?" He looked at me like I was crazy.

"Are you crazy?" Dean asked in a gruff voice, confirming my thought. But he did seem to be obeying my request - well, my edict - as he was slowing, getting into the other lane. There were several gas stations up ahead.

The Impala had barely made it into the parking space when I threw open the door and started making my way down the side of the gas station. I wanted to get close to the wall so I could brace against it. Just in case.

But damn it to hell. Ten steps in, and I knew I'd screwed myself. I'd let the stress of the trip get to me, and it had balled up right in my weak spot. Prodded to life by what was totally my fault, and now the nerve pain had already started shooting down one of my legs.

"Walk it off, walk it off," I starting chanting to myself, before I started grinding my teeth; a particularly sharp stab and boom - my left knee wobbled, and I was still nowhere near the wall. My left forearm was suddenly gripped firmly, a similar grip now snaking around my waist, keeping me upright. "Shit," I breathed out, the pain distracting me out of pushing whoever it was away.

"What is it?"

Dean.

"Pinched nerve," I answered tersely. "Old injury." I leaned forward a little, trying to encourage him to move with me. He did.

"Does this not make it-"

"No," I cut him off. "Staying in one position too long does it. I need to move."

Dean let go of my forearm, only to grab my hand and pull it up and over his head, across his shoulders. He kept a tight hold on my waist, kept moving, even hoisting me a bit so I straightened up. He was just enough taller than me that it was uncomfortable; I moved my hand to the shoulder next to me, clenching onto it like it was salvation. I was fighting hard not to yelp, but little sounds were coming from my tightly pursed lips anyway.

"If I hadn't botched things up..." Dean said, then sighed.

I was concentrating too hard to ask if he wanted me to make _him_ feel better about _my_ feeling awful. For fuck's sake. I tilted my head away briefly as I rolled my eyes.

Sam came up beside us at a little jog, then slowed, matching our turtle pace. "Do I need to run in and get you aspirin or something?"

"Yes," Dean said, at the same time I said, "No."

"O... okay," Sam replied in an unsure tone.

"I have something in my backpack," I managed to say to him. Then, to Dean: "Pick up the pace a little?" Dean nodded, and did so.

"I'll go ahead and get gas," Sam said after trailing us for a minute or so. Dean handed him the keys and Sam left us to our slow journey around the building.

I could not stop wincing, but the pain was - thankfully - scaling back from a 12 on a scale of 1-to-10, to somewhere around a really angry 9.5; Dean must've noticed.

"It letting up a little?"

I nodded. We were around the back now, passing a dumpster when I spotted a door that caught my interest. I sighed. Then I slowed, and Dean did as well, til we came to a stop. I cut my eyes over to the door.

Dean followed my look, then a slow sort-of victorious grin came over his face as he read the lettering.

BATHROOM

"Congratulations," I said flatly.

He turned that grin on me, shrugged a little, saying, "It's not that I _like_ being right, it's that I _love_ being right."

"I know it's a pain in the ass, but if you could lean me somewhere and go grab the key-" I began, but he cut me off as he ushered me closer to the door.

"Not a problem," Dean said, propping me against the wall, then crouching, pulling something from his inside jacket pocket. Selecting two tiny tools, maybe forty-five seconds later and he was twisting the knob, opening the door. Dean looked up at me, now practically glowing with victory.

I felt the corners of my mouth twitch upwards before I could stop them. "Well damn, MacGyver," I said.

"You should see what I can do with chewed gum, an empty toilet paper roll, a coathanger and some kerosene," he replied as he straightened up.

I allowed myself a close-lipped chuckle, which was stupid, because it rattled my body and made me grimace. Dean's face went back to concern and he reached out for me, but I waved him off, forcing myself to get off the wall, grabbing onto the doorframe to keep steady.

Turned away from him now, I heard him say -

"Will you be alright... I mean, do you not need help in there?"

"Why, you looking for an excuse to get my pants off?" I shot back without thinking, and immediately squeezed my eyes closed and cringed.

"No!" Dean answered, almost at a shout.

And for whatever reason, it offended me.

I grabbed onto the sink and turned as quickly as I could, causing a minor shock of pain, but it was worth it to let a scathing glare land on his pretty, arrogant face. "Shut the fucking door." Dean looked a little annoyed now, but he complied; I saw his shadow. "And go AWAY," I told him, lurching forward, planting a hand on the door for balance, clicking the lock as an added punctuation.

For the guy with the lockpicks.

"FINE!" he hollered through the door, and I listened to his boots clomp as he walked away.

I managed to get my pants and underwear down without too much trouble, and sat, still sore but more than that, relieved to be alone. Leaning forward, I let my elbows rest on my knees. The stretch felt heavenly. But I just didn't know how much longer I could tolerate being around Dean.

Looking at the crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

Hearing his voice.

The haircut. The mannerisms. The sound of his laugh.

It wasn't exactly the same, not at all really, but something about the overall effect... it was throwing me for a loop. Lots of loops. Consecutive lines of loops. I pulled my phone from my pocket, turned it on. A text was waiting from Jody:  _Let me know when it's done, I don't care what time, I want to hear you're safe._ It only rang twice before I heard her voice.

Which is what made my eyes fill.

"Hey girlie, what's shaking?"

"Hey."

"Oh god, what did they do?"

One word. She knew me well, and she clearly knew them well. I snickered at Jody's dry tone. But the tears began to spill over on their own.

I wasn't crying really, they were just... an automatic bodily response, part of the package that came with the memories. Which is why I made it a point not to remember. Unless it was shoved in my face for days on end in a cramped car, then for hours in a makeshift sniper perch. I was tough, sure. But the universe was boning me. Hard. When I didn't reply right away, the silence followed by a sniffle, Jody spoke again.

"I wondered if I had imagined it, but I didn't, did I?" she asked me gently.

"Ah, no," I said with a little laugh, ripping off some toilet paper and blotting my wet cheeks. "No ma'am, you most certainly did not."

Jody sighed. "Oh, crap. What I'd give to be able to zap down there and zap you back home with me. Bundle you up with me and the girls, have a good old fashioned slumber party."

I smiled. That sounded like a real special level of hell. But I loved her for the sentiment. Then I looked down at my left hand. "It's still so weird. That groove being gone," I told her.

And of course, being Jody, she knew exactly what I was talking about. Just like she'd known, unlike my former co-workers or friends of my mother's, that trying to set me up on blind dates was the wrong move. Just like she'd known stupid platitudes like _Time heals all wounds_ and _It is better to have loved and lost, blah-blah-bullshit_ were lost on me. How she'd rescued me from countless, pointless interviews where I'd just be asked about my previous employment - she'd just hired me, plain and simple. Which allowed me to get the next job, which allowed me to have my current job, freelancing, mostly as an instructor for baby-faced private security recruits. Mostly.

I kept staring down at where the missing line would've been. It had started a retreat within a few weeks of taking off the ring. I'd thought that divot would be there til the grave. It only took four months for me to kill the sentimentality. That's what I did, killing efficiently. I had to get busy. Everything else went quicker - all his possessions, save the guns and associated tactical sundry, which were for need, not want. But seeing my wedding band constantly would stop me. Stop my progress. Removing it had still been the last step.

I tuned back in.

"Five years'll do that," Jody was saying to me softly. "Time just makes things fade. They don't really ever go away."

I knew. And I knew she knew, too. We'd been in the trench together, miles and years apart, but we were with each other on those days, hers and mine.

I sighed, shook myself out of it, brushed the last of the tears from under my eyes. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, I wiped myself quickly, then leaned over, clutching my underwear with my free hand and ever-so-slowly eased up from the toilet, bringing them with me. No way was I going to stand up before I did it. I'd be damned if I let any part of my bare ass hit a roadside gas station's bathroom wall.

"Next time I see you, I want a little cheese to go with my whine," I told her, hoping she'd take the hint and let the mood change.

Of course she did. "So where are you now, Annie Oakley? What's the plan?"

I glanced down my body. "Currently my pants are around my ankles in a random bathroom just south of East Bumfuck, Nebraska."

A pause. "Copy that."

"And I'm formulating what maneuvers to employ to get them on before I get stuck in that loud-ass car again, heading in the direction of not you."

I could practically _hear_ Jody roll her eyes. "They want you to just stay the night, don't they? Get back on the road tomorrow?"

"Yup."

Another pause. "What are you going to do?"

I thought this over, but only for a moment. I set my jaw. I squatted through another jolt of pain, then shot back up, yanking my pants all the way back to my waist. "Well, I figure since I just got my big girl panties back on, I'm headed to a Kansas bunker."

"Call me first thing tomorrow," Jody ordered, no room for discussion.

"Ten-four." Then, in a very un-me moment: "I love you, Jo."

"Love you back."

We hung up, and after I took a moment to button and zip, wash my hands and wipe my face with a damp paper towel, I was ready. The paper towel ball sailed over, going cleanly into the trash can. Nothing but net. If I believed in signs, then weak as that would've been, I'd have taken it. Most of the major kinks in my back seemed to be out, thanks in large part to Jody taking some of the weight off of it, but I still wanted to be sure, so I was moving very carefully and deliberately.

Dean was outside waiting, far down the wall, standing almost at the next corner of the building. He was leaning with his shoulder against the bricks, hands in pockets, toeing at gravel with the tip of a boot.

 _Stop it_ , I told myself. _Lots of guys lean like that. It's not the same. It's not like him. Dean is not like him._ He looked up when he heard the door, and I made myself stay neutral. No looking away, no friendly looks, no bitchy looks. _Just keep it simple. Keep it simple. Keep it_ \----

At my side now, Dean reached over, taking my hand and repeating the earlier routine, putting my arm back and up to grab his shoulder, wrapping his around my waist. We'd been in the woods for how long? And he still smelled good. The bastard.

Dean didn't speak, and neither did I, but I noticed _him_ noticing my necklace; it had apparently slipped out from the collar of my shirt when I had leaned over as I talked to Jody. I knew I shouldn't have worn it into the woods, I knew it, I _knew it_.

I reached up and quickly stuffed the chain - and what hung from it - back into my shirt.

Dean looked straight ahead again, walking beside me without a word. It was... nice. The quiet. That he didn't feel the need to fill the space with stupid conversation, in spite of what I'd assessed to be a loud-mouthed nature. Maybe I'd figured him all wrong.

The car seemed miles away, now pulled up to the farthest pump from us, Sam standing beside it, filling it with gas.

"I, uh... I talked to Jody," I offered.

Dean didn't respond.

"I'm cool with staying at... coming back to..."

I saw him look over at me out of the corner of my eye.

"I just... probably a good idea for me to stretch out in the back seat," I finished. I glanced over at him briefly. "You know, for the rest of the drive."

Dean stayed silent; so I finally looked over at him, and found he was still looking at me.

"You're really hurting, aren't you?"

It took me aback. Something about the way he said it... I couldn't put my finger on it. But something was behind the question. I wasn't imagining it. I looked back at him for a moment, holding the gaze. "Yeah," I answered quietly.

A curt nod, then he returned to looking straight ahead, and I did the same. Neither of us spoke til we got to the car, where Sam was just finishing up.

"Feel better?" he asked me.

I shot him a little smile. "Nope." His hopeful face fell. I smiled a little wider at that reaction. Bless his long-legged heart. "I'm kidding. Yes, much. And, bonus - you get the front seat again."

Sam smiled back.

"Hang on," Dean told me as he released my waist, guiding me to a lean against the side of the back end of the car. He dropped into a squat, reaching out, moving the cuff of one of my pant legs up, tucking a little in the boot below it. Then he started untying the laces, loosening them all the way down before moving on to the other one. "Okay," he said when he finished, standing and opening the back door. He extended his arms in my direction, made a _Come on_ motion with his hands.

I took them. They were so strong. Rough, calloused palms with soft, thick fingers.

I planned to drug myself to sleep. I wasn't going to make it. But no, _uuuuggghh_ , I couldn't - the good stuff was at home. I'd only packed anti-inflammatories. That wouldn't do jack.

 _It's not Dean's fault_ , I kept telling myself. I was trying to be logical - he knew nothing about my life, I'd been such a bitch he had no reason to _give_ a shit about my life... I needed to get hold of myself. I was a grown woman acting like a child. He was looking out for me despite how I'd behaved, and he didn't deserve to be treated poorly.

Period.

After easing into a lying position, I let out a moan of relief. Dean had taken a knee beside the open door while he'd removed my boots and helped me lift my legs up, so I could have my knees bent, socked feet planted by my ass, flattening my back into what I had to admit to myself was a seat padded to just the exact firmness I'd needed. Dean chuckled when he heard me. He placed my boots side-by-side in the floorboard. I watched as one after the other, he brought the long laces together, tied them in a quick slipknot so they wouldn't tangle, then dropped them behind the tongues, letting them dangle inside.

Fuck him for being thoughtful.

"Nice," he commented when he was done, grinning a bit, still on his knee and leaning in, now pointing to my socks.

I couldn't remember which I'd chosen. I had amassed a pretty decent collection in a short amount of time. Chalk it up to years of standard issue thick wickable boring ones. "Ah... let's see... I remember the colors were bright... neon stripes? Or polka dots?" I asked him, tilting my head a bit to see around my knees so I could look at him.

"Cookie Monster," he replied, glancing from them to me.

"Darn it," I said with a quick snap of my fingers and a bit of a grin of my own. "Not even close."

I was trying, dammit. And I wish I hadn't, as his grin faded, keeping his eyes locked on mine for just a beat too long. I felt my curved lips fall back to normal, too. I was telling myself to turn my head away, look down, _something_ , but my body wasn't listening. Could be I wasn't telling it loudly enough anymore. But I didn't have time to decide, because just then Sam had returned from paying and Dean stood, closing the door near my feet.

"Here," I heard Sam say, then saw through the window that he was holding out the keys to Dean.

"Nah, I'm sick of driving for now, you take over." And with that, Dean opened the passenger door on the same side, climbing in.

I turned my head to face the back of the seat. He had a clear line of sight to me, now that he wasn't at the wheel and my head was behind the driver's side. I heard crunching and crinkling and shuffling. Sam opened the door.

"Throw this crap out," Dean told him, and I heard the front seat squeak as he leaned across to the driver's side door, apparently handing him the bunched-up food bag based on Sam's response.

"You don't want the rest of the fries?" Sam asked from outside.

Dean didn't respond right away. He was looking at me. I knew he was looking at me. I'd have bet my life... ok, not _my_ life, maybe Jody's kids' lives. But I was very, very sure. I closed my eyes.

"Dean?" Sam prompted.

Another squeak of the seat.

"No," Dean said in a low, almost pouty, tone.

It could've been my imagination, but Sam's driving seemed less... well, less everything. Less bumps, less screeching up to stops, and his music choices weren't my taste - _really_ weren't my taste - yet he seemed so considerate of my presence in the back seat, not blasting it through the speakers or cranking the bass.

Dean hadn't looked at me or spoken to me in hours. The two of them had hardly spoken in at least one. I had been absently fingering my necklace and looking out the back window at the smattering of stars flying by when I got that feeling again. That I was being watched.

I turned my head.

Dean was facing backwards, one arm slung across the back of the front seat. He caught my eye, then stared at my fingers, at the gold bands I kept running them around, then through, then out, then starting over. It was a habit I'd developed, triggered by late nights. When I'd startle myself awake.

Upshot of sleep deprivation: apathy. And so I let my eyes bore holes through him til he looked up from studying the necklace. Dean tilted his chin towards it, giving it another glance before meeting my eyes again. I raised an eyebrow, because tough shit. Grow up. Verbalize.

He blinked, but after a brief glance downwards, looked back to me and spoke softly. "You were married."

I kept staring, kept my thumb inside the largest band, kept running my index finger over it, pressing it into my skin. "Indeed," I replied. Dean didn't say anything to that; so I did. "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, then shrugged. "I just saw the rings and-"

"Could've been my parents' rings. Maybe they're dead and I'm super sentimental."

Now a series of blinks, a couple of facial expressions, opening and closing his mouth a few times, debating how to respond. I sighed. Then I sat myself up. And then I let him off the hook.

"Jody told me you asked her for a background check," I informed him. "I told her she could go ahead, I didn't mind. So... I ask again: Why?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, and it was genuine; he didn't know what I was driving at.

"I assume her word was good enough as far as my skills went. And she told you I was aware of the bumps in the night. That's the why - why a formal background check?"

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, the brothers sharing a look that, even though I couldn't see it clearly, just made me more determined to press.

"We, um... I mean, we did a basic one on your name, um... there were these sealed records," Sam began, not seeming to know how to construct an actual sentence.

Dean fessed up. "We thought maybe Jody would be able to tell us more."

"Uh- _huh_ ," I replied in a slightly sing-song voice. Please. They were not the first near-strangers to bring this up to me. They could get in line. Several moments of silence. I had glanced in the rearview mirror to look at Sam when he'd spoken, and he'd immediately looked away after catching my eye. "Okay, I'll go now," I announced, and felt that snot-faced brat inside me push the grown woman out of the way and step up to the plate. "Astute as you are, I bet you noticed that around the dates on those sealed records, I got to bury my husband."

Pin-drop silence in the car.

"Those records are the investigation into his death - see, it happened on the job. And FBI-SWAT doesn't like word getting around of head cases within their ranks."

Dean's brow creased ever-so-slightly as he processed.

"Me," I clarified, pointing to myself. "I'm talking about me."

"I didn't mean to-" Dean began quietly, but I cut him off in my self-protective, snarky, overly chipper tone.

"No, no! This is good practice. I've only told this story to two people: the investigatory psychiatrist and Jody. The former labelled me with lots of multi-syllable words which ended up getting me off the hook for homicide."

Dean's sharp intake of air was audible.

 _There ya go Sherlock_ , I thought. _Make them connections_.

"And Jody, well, Jody and I have known each other since the academy. She knew something crazy happened - not, you know, crazy-crazy," I specified, spinning a finger near my head. "She knew this was way outside my norm. So one night after drinking roughly her entire liquor cabinet, I told _her_ what I'm about to tell _you_!"

Dean was rapidly growing more tense by the second, so many lines in his creased forehead, jaw clamped, posture stiff. But I've never met a tense situation I didn't like meeting head-on.

"It was one of our last missions together, me and hubby. Not cool to have married people on the same unit, so he was transferring to a nice, safe desk job the next week.

"We - that is, my team and I, which included my partner on the op, who had recently become my husband - breached into what we understood to be a hostile situation. He and I went to our pre-planned area to sweep and clear.

"I got to go first into this big, wide-open, warehouse-type area, because I was the one with the shield. Lots of boxes and crates for scary people to hide behind. Not. Terribly. Ideal."

I had leaned up a bit, tapped a finger against Dean's forearm to emphasize those last three words.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

I flopped back against my seat again. "Then I saw smoke - I thought maybe a hidden creeper had tossed out a smoke grenade to blind us. But it was this thin, snake-like thing that _wove_ its way through the air, shot right over my head, and what do you think happened next, Dean?"

A nervous half-smile washed over his face. "Hey, uh, look, Snipes, we really don't have to-"

I plowed on. "Well! I got kicked in the back so hard, it crushed bone - coulda severed my spinal cord, they said. The hospital chaplain called me _blessed_."

"Just-"

"And I flipped end over end, which, I tell ya, never did gymnastics as a kid, and it did _not_ inspire me to take it up."

"Why don't you-"

"But I was a finely tuned machine back then, Dean, I mean, that shit today? Whatever. You could've handicapped me by a rainstorm, a hundred more yards and two of that thing's buddies."

Dean swallowed, and points for effort, kept opening his mouth to try to interrupt me.

"It was just second nature for me to get the shield back up. It didn't register for me that it was him - the love of my life - who'd kicked me so hard I was starting to lose feeling in the lower half of my body. It didn't register til he was coming towards me with this sick smile on his face - cause he'd thrown off his tactical helmet by that point, you know, so he could see me suffer up close."

I was sitting up as I spoke, slowly edging forward with each word. Now Dean shut his mouth completely, almost looking like he was going to reach for me - what, to comfort me? Because this could be comforted? Fuck that.

"And he proceeded to unload every round he had into that shield, and the closer he got, well, let's just say those shields don't hold up like you want 'em to when it gets personal," I continued, and though I kept my tone as facetious as possible, those goddamn tears started welling up again. "I heard boots pounding above us, knew at least part of our team was headed towards the gunfire. He heard it, too; I know, because he stopped before he put the next mag into his gun to get out an actual smoke grenade - you know, what that other thing _wasn't_ , but I bet you've guessed by now where this is going."

Dean kept his eyes locked on mine.

"He started chucking smokes and flash-bangs one after the other, back at the door, into the hallway, and I thought that was so weird - til it occurred to me it wasn't to buy him time, to keep them from saving _me_ , I was going to be dead in a second; it was so he could get the drop on _them_."

I leaned in close to Dean, and when he started to back away slightly, I shot my arm forward, grasped him with my left hand by the nape of his neck, came in real, real close.

"And when he turned back, I'd already tossed the shield away, raised my gun, saw him looking right through me with those fucked up shark eyes-" I raised my right hand, just my index and middle finger extended "-and didn't flinch when I put a bullet right between 'em."  I pressed the fingers firmly above Dean's nose, directly onto the exact point where I'd fired five years ago, into the man he reminded me of every second of every minute of every hour I'd been in his presence. "Found out later that was pretty goddamn smart: hard for a demon to use a host, alive or dead, that's had chunks of brain matter blown out. Body just won't _do_ right, you know?" I let go of his neck and pulled my fingers away, but he didn't move.

I heard Sam gulp audibly.

Then I heard my voice go all soft, though I didn't mean for it to. "It was in slow-motion. Watching him die. I thought I could actually see the bullet spinning forward. I know I saw, right as it pierced his skin, I _know_ I saw that snake of smoke start coming out of his mouth, pretty easily seeing as how his jaw had gone slack by the time the smoke left completely. And I _know_ when his eyes went back to puppy-dog brown because it was right as the bullet came out the back of his skull."

Two lone tears, one from each eye, rolled out and down my cheeks.

"You would find in that report that the evidence showed he apparently snapped and came after me. It would also show that my hallucinations and possible break from reality caused by the aforementioned husband snap was likely all due to a faulty smoke bomb canister that had some chemical mix-up. The report ends with them jerking each other off, congratulating themselves for bringing it to the attention of the manufacturer, so they could do a mass recall. But I'm still that once-promising elite who shot a fellow officer at point-blank range in the line of duty. And after I used up all my bereavement leave and vacation time and sick time, and just somehow couldn't manage to suck it up and go back to being a robot, they fired me."

Dean moved a hand, beginning to reach up like he was going to wipe my tears away.

 _No_.

I made my voice cold again. Jody was drunk that night, too. She'd explained to me I wasn't crazy. Explained the world within our world. Told me enough about these hunter friends of hers, a pair of brothers, for me to put two-and-two together as I heard more stories over time. I knew just how much my husband and Dean _really_ had in common.

"You ever looked into the eyes of evil, Dean? Knew it was gonna eat you alive? Coming from someone you thought you knew inside and out?"

Dean froze, and as I watched his face morph into something hard, I felt my eyes narrow in viciousness, the corners of my mouth tweak up in wickedness.

"Yeah you do," I whispered, answering for him.

I stayed frozen, too. We were playing emotional chicken. He broke first, turning completely away, staring out the front window into the night. Sam was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

I sat back. "We getting close?" I asked him, my voice back to normal.

"About ten more minutes," Sam answered quietly.

"Good. I need a shower," I commented, back to absently fiddling with the rings.

And I did. I felt disgusting.

Those next ten minutes passed quickly, and Sam helped me out of the car, as Dean had practically bolted as soon as the keys were out of the ignition. Sam reached back in, slung my backpack over one of his shoulders, then picked up my boots.

"I can-" I started, but he looked at me with such kindness and sympathy, it broke my heart a little.

"It's okay," he said softly, and I knew he didn't just mean playing bellhop for me. And I believed him. For tonight, it was going to be okay.

"Sweet lord," I muttered when we entered the bunker proper.

Sam chuckled. "I'll give you the nickel tour in the morning." He chose a room from what seemed like a hundred options along a rounded hallway, turning on the light, dropping my bag onto the bed and setting my boots by the door.

"Sink," I noted. "That's... convenient."

"You're close to the bathroom and the showers," Sam said, and I followed him a little ways down the hall. And shit, I was getting stiff again. My word vomit in the car had only relieved it for a little while. A hot shower was now a definite, not a maybe.

I stopped cold at the threshold. Sam had walked in, telling me I could help myself to any of the soap and shampoo I saw, when he noticed I hadn't followed. It was like a locker room - no door at the entry, no curtains or individual stalls.

"Uh..." I began, trailing off with a little grin as I gestured around to all the open space.

Sam actually blushed a bit, reached up, ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I didn't think of that. We don't exactly have guests. I mean, not-"

"Of the boob variety, yeah, I figured that," I finished for him. But I wasn't annoyed or irritated. Sam was a good guy. Probably why I looked on him like a kid brother. He treated me nice, and it made me edgy. "Well," I said with a sigh, "I suppose I'll just have to be quick."

"I could hang a sheet over the doorway," he offered.

I shrugged. I knew Sam wouldn't dare disturb me, and it seemed Dean was hell and gone from anywhere near me, so it was really irrelevant.

"Okay, well, let me at least let you borrow one of my shirts. I'll grab a pair of pajama pants, too."

"That'd be great, an old t-shirt is my usual lingerie anyway," I told him honestly.

Sam nodded. "I'll rustle up some towels."

I went back into the bedroom while he went on his mission. It was retro from top to bottom. I kind've loved it. Standing at the mirror above the tiny sink, I gathered my long hair up again, but this time into a messy top knot. It had been cropped short for so long, out of necessity, so I'd let it grow over the past several years, and I didn't really know why. Some kind of spite? Flipping a bird at the past? Wanting to look like a completely different person? Because that's how I felt inside, anytime I'd look in the mirror?

I unzipped the backpack, tossing items to the side as I rooted through everything. It was my go-bag, so all the contents were needs only, a low-caliber version of my typical fare from home. When missions were spur of the moment, it was handy to have - our gear and outerwear was already at our home base, so all we needed to have was a spare set of the basics.

Toothbrush and toothpaste: check. Through the plastic of a ziplock - lipbalm, tiny bottle of lotion, tiny deodorant, disposable razor, small bar of soap: check. Two plain white v-neck t-shirts: check. Two pair white tube socks: check. Two pair plain white cotton briefs: check. Plain white cotton bra... plain white cotton bra... plain white- _aaarrrgh_.

I was muttering a few of my favorite blasphemous vocabulary words, continuing to dig, then re-checking what I'd already pulled out, like it would materialize. I knew exactly what had happened. I'd tossed out the bra that had traditionally lived in the go-bag, as well as all the others I'd owned at the time. 'The time' being when I had to stop working out and lifting weights like a maniac - thank you, broken back - and the cups on all my bras rapidly became too small. I'd put on about fifteen more pounds overnight, and it felt like they'd split the difference between my chest and my hips and my ass. The only reason the cargo pants I was wearing fit at all was because they used to belong to... they used to be...

I shook it off. If I had to go braless, I didn't want my skin to be directly against one of their shirts. Even that felt too close right then.

A soft rap against the open door behind me.

"Hey I don't need that t-shirt after all, just the pants," I was saying as I turned around.

There stood Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck in the bunker for the night following her confrontation with Dean, the sniper's past continues to invade her present.

“Thought you could use this,” Dean said, stepping just inside before stopping, looking at me cautiously.

He was holding one of the two small glasses he carried out in my direction. I took it, then lifted it higher, sniffing. I glanced up at him, knowing I had a pleased look on my face.

“Wow. Thanks, that’s…  _wow_.”

Dean didn’t really smile but his eyes twinkled, a touch of creasing at the corners. “Yeah, a little birdie up north mentioned it to me. Said if you came through for us, we should reward you.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, feeling a grin come to my lips. I took a sip. It was whiskey, but really top shelf. As in, look at the top shelf at any bar or restaurant, then say to the bartender - No. The  _other_ top shelf. The one in the back.  _That_ was my brand. Because I was an unapologetic snob on this matter.

“We got you a bottle,” Dean reported.

“The big bottle?”

He nodded.

“No, not the size you’re probably thinking of, I mean the big economy size bottle, for a family of six, the size housewives would get at Costco if they sold it.”

Dean grinned, too. “We’re talking the same bottle. It was stashed in the weapons locker of the trunk. I doubled-back after you and Sammy left the garage.”

“That right?”

He nodded. “I was pissed. Thought I’d make a healthy dent in it, maybe fill it back up with some rotgut, really piss you off while I was at it.”

“Ha!” I blurted out, throwing my head back a little. I laughed. I genuinely laughed, and informed him, “Next go-round, even if I’m the cause of it, if your kind of misery loves company, feel free to come sit by me anytime. I gotcha covered.”

Dean’s face fell a little then, but mine hadn’t, I was in a pretty great mood as I continued to sip on the drink. I swallowed, eyeing him. “What?“ I finally asked him. ” _What_ is your deal, man?”

He narrowed his eyes, then rolled them, turned to walk away. “Never mind,” he mumbled.

_Oh, for…_

I grabbed his bicep and he stopped, let himself be turned back toward me. We looked at each other for a moment, then I took a deep breath. I was shitty at conversation, and I was even shittier at apologies. I exhaled, hoping it didn't sound like a huff. “I am… Dean, I’m a difficult person. I know this. Many,  _many_ other people know this. Trust me, I could be off-putting long before my husband got possessed and my life imploded.”

A spark of understanding… or something that at least wasn’t anger… crossed over his face. Okay. Score. I wasn’t striking out. It was just the top of the first, but who was counting?

I was. Me. I was counting. It’s what I did. I always knew how many rounds I had left, how many my partner had left, how many that other dude over there had left. Curse/blessing.

“And I’m defensive to a fault. I can get bitchy and bossy when it comes to things I know damn well I’m good at. But…" I trailed off a little, glancing around the room, finally landing on the pool of brown liquid in the glass I held, before raising my eyes to his again. "But I’m loyal. I am fiercely loyal. I’d take a bullet for Jody. And I mean it: any time you and Sam need a crack shot, I’ll be there.” I paused, holding up the glass a bit. “There will  _possibly_ be a small fee next time…”

Dean chuckled.

“…but I’ll be there. Assuming you can tolerate me. And I can bring my own wheels. And you stay the  _fuck_ out of my perch.”

Now he full-on laughed, and I joined in. Then we clinked glasses and drank a little more. This next part was going to suck. I looked down at one of the Cookie Monster faces on my feet.

“You, um… I’ve been harsh with you,” I admitted.  _Ugh_ , my voice sounded so tiny and weak in my head. “There’s just something in your very nature that reminds me of… you just… jerk me back in time to…”

Mother-effing- _stupid_ -stupid- _STUPID_ tear ducts, how did I have any tears  _left_. I raised my head then, rolling my eyes heavenward, as if gravity would defy itself, or something above me would suck the moisture out of my eyes.

“Anyway I’m sorry,” I finished in a rush, lowering my gaze, flying straight past his face, focusing on my glass so I could get it to my mouth and not ram it into my chin. I chugged the rest of my drink, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. A tiny sniffle got away from me. I dared to look at him once more.

Dean had an unreadable expression at first, then it turned to being a bit amused. He shrugged, following my lead, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. He took my glass from me, set both it and his on the nearby desk.

“That is a waste,” I was commenting as he turned back around, “I mean, it really is a sipping kind of—-” I cut myself off; I couldn’t finish. My breath had been taken away.

Dean had come in close, closer than I’d gotten to him back in the car, and this time he did manage to sneak his hands up, holding either side of my face, brushing traitorous tears away with his thumbs. Tingly chills ran all over me, everywhere.

 _Everywhere_.

I thought he might kiss me, and I didn’t know what to do with that. Truly. It had been so long since I’d kissed anyone - I mean  _really_ kissed anyone - that I felt for sure I’d likely regressed. Jody’d drilled into me all that keeping-my-skills-honed crap, and god help me, I was starting to regret not honing  _these_  skills with a few meaningless bar pick-ups a year. I’d left a trail of motels and condoms in my wake after my back had healed, but… that had been many moons ago. I wouldn’t mind a good hate fuck. Dean just didn’t seem to be on the same page, because he did not go for my mouth, apparently having other ideas.

Keeping the pressure feather-light, he kissed my forehead; I let my eyes close.

Left eye lid.

Left temple.

Tip of nose.

Right jaw line.

I was growing so relaxed at this point, I actually swayed a little. A few more tears slipped out on their own. Dean kissed those away, too. I felt his lips brush against mine on his way to capture the last renegade tear on the opposite side of my face, and I jumped away so abruptly, I caused our foreheads to knock together.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, then he seemed to catch himself, even though what he’d said didn’t bother me - I was thinking the exact same thing. “You okay?” he asked me.

I had one hand up on my hip, the other raised and rubbing my forehead. One socked foot had started tapping nervously. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; it looked like I was mentally trying to name all the state capitals in backwards alphabetical order, my face was so pinched. “I’m… ah… need to… to go,” I managed.

“Go?” he repeated.

I sprang to life, going over to the bed, grabbing the shirts and the socks and the underwear, everything, quickly stuffing it all back in the bag. “Imma go take a shower,” I said really fast, snatching up the backpack and holding it tight against me like it was a newborn, brushing against him as I got the hell outta Dodge.

 _STRIKE ONE!_  called the umpire in my mind.

“Oh shut up,” I hissed.

I almost sprinted to the bathroom.

Sam was just setting a pile of towels on a chair that I suppose had come from - oh who  _cared_ where it came from, I just wanted him to go away. He had a shirt and pajama pants thrown over one shoulder. I tossed my bag by the chair, started unbuttoning my pants.

“Okay, so here’s this and these - whoa,” Sam said, blinking in surprise at me.

I paused in my undressing, snatching the pants from him. “Just need these everything else is perfect thank you so much you’re the best,” I said quickly, the word vomit coming back with a passion. 

He didn’t come out of his trance til I smiled and gave the doorway an obvious glance. “Well just… I guess just call out if you need anything else,” he told me, making his way towards the door.

“This is perfect!” I reiterated again.

After Sam left, I leaned against the tile, letting myself slowly slide down. I winced a little from my sore back. Shit. Shitty shit  _shit_. The stress was swirling, starting to ball up into knots. I would compensate so much for the nerve pain that I would never realize until too late that the musculature, the tendons, the ligaments - I’d pushed them to the max, and locking up was their ever-so-kind way of saying _thank you_.

I went through the stack Sam had left - huh, how about that, men living alone who had hand towels. New one for me. And he’d left such an unnecessary amount of washcloths, I wondered how dirty he thought I was. I looked down at myself.

Answer: possibly beyond hope.

I took the stack, set it on a sink, moved the chair near the closest shower to the door. I planned on having my back to the shower head, keeping the entry point within my sight, just like I did in restaurants and anywhere else I wasn’t alone. I picked up a towel and washcloth to bring back over; then, on second thought, went ahead and picked up the whole shebang. As I assembled my toiletries, it occurred to me that everything I had was scentless - more old habits that wouldn’t die. The soap, the lotion, the deodorant, even the lip balm. It was just good practice. We had to concentrate on our surroundings, always, any distraction was unacceptable. I got used to the nothingness.

My husband had bought me perfume for an anniversary once when we were still dating. I remember giving him a  _look_ when I saw the box. But then I’d smelled it, and it was heaven in a bottle. So faint, so airy, such barely-there perfection. I’d sprayed it between my breasts. Then I’d climbed on his lap. We’d made love right there on the sofa, not even bothering to get undressed all the way. I would always associate that smell with that night. It still made me nauseated to get a whiff of it whenever I’d pass by someone wearing it.

I’d brought the bottle with me the first time I’d been able to go to the range after the surgeons cleared me for some basic activity, though I’m sure my idea of  _basic_  was hell and gone from their other patients. The owner of the range knew me, knew what happened, felt sorry for me, and let me in before they opened one morning. I’d chucked that bottle as far up and out as I could, kept the rifle lowered til the last second. Nailed it with a .44, turning it into powder. Annie Oakley, eat your heart out.

I stripped out of my nasty, sweaty clothing, tossing it to the side. I noted I’d absently brought the Glock out, too, set in within my reach on top of the towel before I caught what I’d done.  _Didn’t need that here,_  I reminded myself as I put it away. Our wedding bands, and that - always on me. Always a motivator, and always something to blow the next one to back to hell should one of the bastards want another dance.

The water was hot. I went through every washcloth, scrubbing my reddened skin til it stung, moving at a brisk pace. Practically clawed at my scalp, washing my hair twice. Shaved everywhere, wanting to make sure every possible bit of the dirt and sweat of the past few days was gone. Went so fast on my legs, I nicked my ankles.

I bent over at the waist when I was satisfied with my level of cleanliness. Letting the stress out with a stretch, letting the water pound my back, letting myself sink til my fingertips drug the floor. Watched the little trails of blood blend with the soapy water, swirl down the drain. As I stood, I let my hands drift up, run over my inner thighs, then higher. Just a brief touch; I didn’t have time for that now.

Sam’s towels were slightly rough, but I didn’t care. I stood naked by the chair for a moment, enjoying the coolness as the steam faded, applying the lotion quickly, then pulling on my underwear. The briefs were snug against my silk-smooth pussy, though they were a little too tight against my ass; probably should’ve thought to upgrade their size, too.

After some fierce squeezing, I pulled my hair back up into a topknot. The hairs escaping from the ponytail holder still dripped a little onto the collar of the shirt when I pulled it over my head. But oh god, how good it felt to just have thin cotton against my breasts. The thick sports bra I’d been wearing had been almost rib-crushing. I had to roll the waistband of the flannel pajama pants; they were Dean’s, I could tell. My husband and I were almost exactly the same height, hence my ability to manage wearing his old cargos without tripping. A pair of Sam’s would’ve been far too long.

Back in the room, I found myself smiling, noting my lone glass on the desk, with a nearly-full whiskey bottle now beside it. I threw the dirty clothes on the floor, backpack too, then pulled on new socks and poured a modest glass. I heard a shower start up. I enjoyed this drink slowly, studying the room while I sipped. I always memorized my surroundings, no matter the size, no matter the claimed level of security. The shower cut off around the time I finished. I glanced out in the hallway but didn’t see a soul. I was feeling dehydrated after the near-sauna I’d created and the second whiskey.

Padding around the circular hall, I wandered a bit, ended up in that crazy room with the ancient equipment, wandered further, then finally found the kitchen. Got nosy, rooted around in the fridge, snagged a cold water bottle. As I drank, I opted to look around a little more. There was one last hitch in my lower back, just above one of my cheeks and to the side of the first of many reconstructed vertebrae. I rubbed the palpable knot as I walked. I needed to work it out before falling asleep or else I’d heartily regret it in the morning.

I’d scoped out the table and stools in the kitchen for possible use, but the heights were all wrong. Jody’s kid - the brunette, who’d been a cheerleader or something - had showed me a trick the last time I couldn’t shake a knot, and damn if it didn’t work. She’d had me get a foot up onto a rung of a ladder in Jody’s garage, putting it at almost the level of my waist, directing me how to lean and tip my pelvis and rotate my hips around. Then when I hit the spot where it flared, I was to push into it with my fingers as hard as I could.

It only partially worked that day, at least with  _me_ trying to push it into oblivion. The other kid - the blonde one, who was usually pissed off and was shockingly strong - ended up grinding a fist into it from a different angle, and it dissipated like a dream. I’d almost hugged them.  _Almost_.

Now I’d ended up in a library. There was a telescope. Underground. Well, that trumped the bizarreness of the sinks that seemed to be everywhere. Still checking for something of use, everything I saw was too tall or too short, though a few of the chairs around the library were getting closer. But when I turned, found myself looking into that weird equipment room again, I found what I hoped was the perfect solution in the staircase.

Adjusting the flannel pants for more wiggle room, I tried out some different steps, thankfully without slipping in my socked feet. The last one I tried was the winner. Just that little bit of a change in angle, and it was better already. I was in the midst of the rotations, pressing around, feeling for the edges of the knot, when I heard footsteps approach.

I knew it was him without looking.

“Gonna need to put a bell on you,” I commented, strain in my voice as I kept up the slight re-positioning, trying to find a sweet spot.

“Uh, Snipes? That ain’t how stairs work.”

I cut my eyes over. So  _he’d_  been the one in the shower. His hair was still wet, feet in slippers. He wore a loose robe over a white t-shirt and striped blue boxers. The scent of his soap or maybe shampoo drifted over. It had a note of cedar, a touch of citrus, but very light, none of that overly sharp, comes-in-the-room-before-you-do, high school sophomore garbage.

I gave him a wink, and the side of his mouth turned up. “I’m aware. Just borrowing for a sec, trying to get my stretch on before I lie down.”

Dean watched for a moment. I stopped the movement, felt my head tilt in concentration as I thought I had it. I winced as I pressed in.  _Yup. Right there_. "Shit,“ I muttered, wincing again.

I was so focused, I hadn’t realized he’d come closer.

"Knot?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmmm. I’m trying to get a good angle on it.”

A few beats of silence passed, then he said, “Want me to try?”

The answer was yes, as I had no doubt he’d trounce blondie in the driving-a-fist-into-my-back category. But. 

 _But_.

Eh, screw it.

“Yeah, actually,” I told him. “Here. Get behind me. Make a fist.”

“Okay.”

“See where my fingers are? It’s right in there.”

“Okay,” Dean said again. I felt his knuckles against me. “You ready?”

“We’ll find out,” I replied, grabbing the rails to brace myself just in case. Good thing, too. “Ooh,” I gasped, my upper body pitching forward a little.

A soft chuckle behind me. “That it?”

“Oh yeah,” I said through a chuckle of my own. “You can press in more. Now that I know what’s coming.”

I felt Dean ease forward, up against me now. His left arm went around me like when he’d helped me before, but higher than my waist, since my raised leg was in the way. He gripped me securely around my upper torso, his forearm brushing up against the underside of my breasts.

“All right - one, two, three,” Dean told me. His breath tickled the damp hairs on the back of my neck. I felt a release in the pressure, involuntarily sunk back into him. He felt so solid. I fought back a shiver when his nose grazed the back of my ear. “More?”

That deep voice, that single word. I nodded in response; I didn’t want to risk speaking. Dean repeated what he’d done, then lingered, kneading the area with his knuckles, rotating his wrist up and down.

“Okay, uh… I think we’re good,” I said, then cleared my throat, as the quality of my voice was growing closer to a whisper and I did not like that. At  _all_.

Dean slowly slid his arm from around me, but I still felt his presence close by as I reached back again with my hand, pressing with my fingertips onto the spot that was just below the start of the waistband, more on my cheek than my back. “Will you let me try something else?”

I nearly froze at the unexpected request, but recovered quickly. “Um, sure?” A clipped, nervous laugh escaped my lips before I knew it.

No laugh from Dean. His expression was serious, focused, maybe driven, even, as he came around, facing me, turning me a little so I was tilted out more toward the room versus the staircase. 

 _Ah_. Now I understood. It would’ve been in his way.

He stepped into my personal space, wrapping his arm all the way around my torso again, his face close to mine. He gently nudged my fingertips off the spot as he slid his own just barely under the waist band. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I brought them up, let them rest lightly on his shoulders. I kept my eyes trained on a random freckle on his neck. I could not look at him, not this close. Dean pushed with a decent amount of pressure, but not even as much as I’d done.

“Harder,” I said.

He pulled me in a little closer, adjusted his hand, pressed harder. His feet were on either side of the foot I still had on the floor. I could smell  _him_  under the soap now. Ducking his head, his lips next to my ear, that damn word again:

“More?”

I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t, but I felt myself lean into him. My hands drifted from his broad shoulders, arms now making a loop, resting atop them. “Harder,” I instructed him again. I gripped my own forearms tightly, grit my teeth when Dean did as he was told. “Keep doing that. Right there. Don’t stop,” I said into the side of his neck, now virtually completely pressed against him; a shiver passed over Dean.

I closed my eyes. He was hitting exactly the right spot. I felt it fading, I could tell he did, too, as the force he delivered incrementally lessened. Before I realized it, I was arching ever-so-slightly backwards, meeting his fingertips as he moved them over me. The grasp around my torso strengthened. Dean’s breaths were beginning to sound ragged. His head moved from the side, never breaking contact as he slid it around, his forehead coming to rest against mine. His eyes were barely open. But I knew it wasn’t because he was tired. He was wide awake. And so was I.

“Tell me what you need,” Dean whispered, his voice husky.

My heart fluttered. As an answer, I took away whatever fraction of a space remained between us, pressing in fully, smashing my breasts against him. I felt the vibration of his response travel across my chest.

“Mmmm." 

The arm wrapped around me pulled away, followed by the other, as Dean raised his hands to my head, smoothed a few fly-away hairs out of my face. "Can we lose this?” he whispered, his fingers already drifting to the twists of hair.

I nodded, keeping our eye contact as I reached up, quickly pulled the ponytail holder away, let it fall to the floor as my hair fell down my back. A tiny smile across his lips, then those lips were back against my neck, the arm wrapped back around me, settling me into his embrace. He’d returned his other hand to my lower back, though no more fingertips - his whole hand was pushing, rubbing, more of a massage. All across my lower back. Then lower, across the top of the curves of my ass. Then higher again, to where my bra strap would’ve been.

Dean let his head drift once more, now bringing it up and around, coming to rest on the other side, keeping his face turned in so when he sighed, I could feel the movement of his lips. My own lips were parted and my breaths were getting shallow. I began to lightly grind my pelvis, like it was an involuntary reaction, into the thigh of the leg that was in the space between mine. I had been wet since he walked in the room.

“Mmmm,” Dean hummed again, his hand moving faster up and down my back, now slipping it under the shirt. He brought his leg up to the first step. I pushed into it.

I shivered against him, ground a little more, felt his erection as I gyrated higher. And when he felt me begin to move my other leg off of the stair -

“Not yet,” he told me softly but firmly.

I was disappointed to sense the thigh he’d just offered me being moved away. Had I messed up? Had I overstepped?

No. As I shortly found out, oh-but-no. I had  _not_.

Dean switched the arm he had around me, freeing up his dominant hand. I felt the back of the hand against my belly, moving gently to and fro, fingers slowly edging further and further under the elastic waistband of the pajama pants. The tiniest of pauses as the fingertips found the waistband of my underwear, the process resuming, back and forth, back and forth.

My eyes had long fallen closed, but I opened them slightly when he’d stopped, just after the tips of his fingers were nearing so, so close to where I wanted them. Dean’s head had eased up, his forehead coming to rest against mine once more, eyes focused, unwavering, asking a silent question. So I took a page from his book; bringing my lips right up against his, I whispered:

“ _More_.”

Now  _his_ eyes fell closed as he inhaled sharply. I did not want to kiss him. Not yet. So I tilted my face, running my nose against the side of his, moving further, letting my cheek be scratched gently by the scruff along his jaw, my lips ending up pressed into that little space behind his jaw and under his earlobe. I returned his favor from earlier, sprinkling wisps of kisses here and there.

Dean’s hand flipped then, palm beginning to cup me, his fingers almost cautiously making their way down, then angling back. His knuckles ran against the damp spot in my underwear, eliciting another sharp breath. I felt the fingers finally go upwards at my taint, making contact there first, then slowly dragging forward. “Fuck,” he gasped into my neck, the stroking of my back coming to a stark halt, hand dropping to grip an ass cheek almost harshly, as his fingers had arrived at their destination and he realized just how wet he’d made me.

Part of me wanted to slam myself down onto the fingers that were delicately tracing around my entrance. But I knew better. Killing taught me patience. Killing taught me focus. My own little deaths were so much sweeter than any impossible shot I’d made, but only when the same amount of patient focus was applied.

My arms were locked tightly around his neck, one of my hands snaking up into his hair, as his free hand released its grip on my ass, again traveling up under the shirt and then stopping, flattened in the middle, fingers splayed, keeping me close.

All of Dean’s concentration was in one place, and one place only.

I’d have thought he was teasing me when the barest bit of his middle and index fingers dipped inside of me, except that they immediately slid up, landing perfectly on my clit. Not that it would have been difficult to find - it was so engorged, I had already felt it pressing against the fabric of my underwear before Dean had even sent his fingers on their journey.

Dean and I both made soft grunting sounds at the same time.

A slide back - a quick dip of his middle finger again - and Dean's fingers flew easily now, rotating around my clit, over it, up and down, back and forth, squeezing it gently between his fingers. But it was too brisk. I would come too quickly. Then it wouldn't be as good. I brought my hands to the sides of his face then, put mine right in front of it, tilted away from his touch.

His forehead creased in disappointment.

“Slower,” I told him, letting my lips ease into a smile. My eyes flicked from his down to his mouth, then back again. When I saw  _his_  eyes had gone to  _my_  lips, I ran my tongue across them.

“Damn,” he whispered, then tried to come in for a kiss. 

I dodged, bringing my head to the side, closer to his ear again. Then I brought my pelvis back to where it was. And for extra measure, re-positioned a little, letting the hip of the leg on the stair rotate, opening myself to him even more.

“Slower,” I reiterated in his ear.

And Dean obeyed. Using just his index finger, he slid gently over my clit, just one last time for the moment, then eased it inside me, pulling it out slowly, letting his middle finger have a turn, this time rotating, pressing around the walls. Dean pulled the finger away. I was sopping wet.

Now he eased both fingers inside, an actual groan coming from him. His other hand came higher up on my back, like he needed something to grasp, briefly doing so with my hair, but eventually letting it come down to grip my hip. His fingers hadn’t moved, but he’d quickly maneuvered his head up so that we were once again facing each other.

Dean’s expression was a combination of confusion and borderline awe. Interspersed between his breaths, he managed a question. “How the fuck are you so tight?”

To answer, I grabbed one of his hips, urging him forward, to remedy the gap that had grown between us due to creating some space for his hand before it curved under my pussy. Now I could slip my fingers under his waistband, causing his eyes to briefly flutter closed, then open widely again as my thumb ran slowly over the head of his cock.

Drops of moisture had begun to emerge, sticky on my thumb. I brought my hand up, let him watch me put the thumb in my mouth and pull it out. I ran the thumb across his lips, planted a small, close-lipped kiss on just the bottom one, then told him what he wanted to know.

“Practice.”

I tensed my core around his fingers.

“Shit,” he muttered, letting his head fall against my shoulder, now pumping his fingers in and out, switching up the pace here and there, penetrating both deep and shallow, and I was loving every push and pull, clamping down occasionally to remind him of what might lay down the road. I hadn’t yet decided. This was fun. I didn’t want this to stop. I couldn’t tell how big he was; I wanted to know. I’m not ashamed - size is important to me.

My husband had a beautiful cock, he loved how much I loved sucking him off, actually felt guilty sometimes about our reciprocation ratio. It just wasn’t particularly long, or thick. It was fine. It also wasn’t the reason I married him. I’d been fucked by plenty of assholes who had such huge packages, I’d be sore for days after just one roll in the hay. So was it a big-picture deal-breaker for me? Obviously not.

I wasn’t considering marrying Dean. A relationship with Dean. I didn’t even know if I was going to actually fuck Dean. But seeing as how he was on deck for a one-night-stand, this was part of the interview process. Otherwise, clearly we’d have a grand ol’ time doing what we had been, I’d probably give him the blowjob of his life, and hell, maybe we’d even start diving back into that yummy bottle waiting in my room. Once we were done playing.

All of that took a backseat, though - Dean hit a particularly good spot that gave me chills, and also boosted my resolve to free his cock from his shorts. I pulled at the waistband of the boxers again, this time going for it, gently encircling what turned out to be an impressive girth with my hand, slowly moving it up and down, but not gripping - just hovering.

Dean’s head raised a little from my shoulder, the kisses he’d been lining up on my neck pausing at my touch. Then the kisses began again, once more inching to my mouth, his free hand leaving my hip to come up and cup the side of my face.

I met his eye and subtly shook my head.

A touch of a smile came to Dean’s lips, and that twinkle in his eye kicked off again. “Little late to play hard-to-get,” he mumbled near my mouth, kissing my chin instead.

“Patience is rewarded,” I replied. Keeping one hand on his cock, I used my other hand to pull his out of my pants. He looked truly bummed. More so when I brought my leg down from the stair. “You’re not going to fuck me, Dean,” I whispered.

His eyebrows raised, glancing down at his hard cock as my thumb kept running up, over, around the head, just like he’d done with my clit.“Oh yeah?” he whispered back.

I stared at him, enjoying those eyes, those eyelashes, the tiny beads of sweat that had come up on his brow. I nodded. I wanted him in my mouth. And told him so.

We didn’t go to his room or mine - Dean chose another room for us altogether, one far away from Sam’s. I suppose he thought I’d be loud. Or maybe he knew he’d be loud. Either way. I was always up for a covert op.

The door had barely clicked closed before the robe was tossed away, and Dean whipped his shirt off, then pulled mine up over my breasts in two seconds flat. And god help me, I actually  _giggled_ when he grabbed me, dipped me back slightly like we were practicing a dance, and immediately clamped his mouth over one of my nipples. And in what seemed like his mantra for the night, a low  _Mmmmm_ came from his throat.

He tipped me back up, edged us over to the wall, pressing into me, that gorgeous smile coming at me full-blast. “Where were  _these_ hiding?” he asked in faux-seriousness, keeping his eyes on mine as he kneaded my breasts with both hands, gently tweaking my nipples erect between his fingers.

“Well, I put them away ‘til there’s a different sort of business to tend to.” I felt my face twitch briefly then - he’d gotten a good roll.

“Did I pinch?” he asked in a remorseful tone, then immediately bent over, put his lips on the offended nipple, ran his tongue over it in such a careful manner, I almost came right then.

I grabbed his biceps, urging him to stand up straight, and as he did so, I lowered myself, kissing a trail from his belly button on down, carefully pulling the elastic of his boxers over his erection, easing them down and letting them drop to the floor.

I began at the base, licking slowly from there all the way up the shaft, but stopping short of the head. And then repeated that, all the way around, varying how much tongue I used, how much pressure I applied. I ran my fingers gently up and down his inner thighs, almost tickling them, no scratching or grasping. He was so swollen and hard, I didn’t need my hands to keep his cock upright.

Dean kept starting and stopping to wind his fingers through my hair, got fidgety the further along I got, little sounds reaching my ears with every lick. Finally I circled the base with a few fingers and my thumb, raising myself up a bit to get a different angle, firmly bringing the ring I’d made up to meet my mouth as I engulfed the head and the first inch or so.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” I heard Dean breathlessly chanting.

I was surprised - I’d only just gotten started, swirling my tongue, running the tip inside the slit, varying the pressure of my fingers as I’d done with my tongue, gentle but purposeful with my strokes - when he suddenly reached down, grabbed me by the shoulders, standing me up.

“What’s—” I started, but was cut off by Dean pulling my shirt up and over my head. Then he pulled me against him, pinning his dick between us.

“You feel how much I want you?” he practically growled, each of his hands grabbing an ass cheek, pushing me into him further.

Again, I borrowed a play from his book, placing my hands on either side of his face, saying, “Tell me what you need.”

He looked me dead in the eyes, so intensely it threw me off my game a bit, and his voice strained when he spoke. “I want… I  _need_ to be inside you.”

It was a variation on a familiar line for most women. Honestly, it typically fell flat. Two people in my entire life had ever said it and meant it. Both had been demons. One had made me a widow.

I let a tiny smile cross my lips, informing him, “Then that’s where you should be.”

Dean leaned in, no doubt wanting to absolutely crush his tongue against my lips, push it into my mouth. But he respected what my stance had been all night, and so we stood there for a moment, faces touching, not hugging but groping aimlessly at each other. The pajamas started to come off my hips as we were grinding, our mouths open but not kissing, just panting into each other.

Dean suddenly looped his thumbs inside the pants and my underwear, pulling them off in one movement, then he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling me over with him. I ended up with my knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips, his hands gripping my ass as I was getting ready to lower myself onto him, when he spoke.

“Stop.”

He removed his hands, and I leaned back, careful to avoid his cock, then perched on his lap and gave him a concerned look.

“I just wanna… I want to make sure that you… that you…” he said, stopping and starting.

He was going to have to sharpen up those thoughts a bit. Then I noticed his eyes were fighting looking away from my face and further down, like he was catching something out of his periphery but didn’t want to look. So I did it for him.

_Oh damn it to hell._

My necklace. He was about to have his face directly in my dead husband’s wedding band while I was riding his cock. I huffed, irritated at myself. I reached under my hair, sliding the clasp around to the front so I could take it off. Dean grabbed one of my hands.

“If you’re not ready, it’s fine.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He frowned. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like  _what?_ ”

“Like I’m bullshitting you.”

“I’m looking at you like: Shut up, let me get this thing off so it won’t distract you and we can fuck.”

Dean just stared at me.

“So now  _I’m_  the one bullshitting,” I stated, climbing off his lab.

He sighed. “Snipes—”

“Nope,” I said, squatting and picking up my clothes.

Let his balls stay blue. Or let that throbbing cock enjoy his hand instead of my pussy. His call. I wouldn’t be around to find out which he chose. Asshole. I heard the mattress squeak as he stood up. In two strides, he stalled my retreat, putting a hand against the door, not stopping me really, just… just…

“Just tell me you’re not doing this to pretend I’m him.”

My head snapped up to look at him. “Fuck off, Dean,” I heard myself snarl, reaching for the door handle.

“Why didn’t you take that off before?” he pressed, still not moving.

I glared. “Because I didn’t know this was going to happen, okay? I didn’t plan on getting stuck with you people and ending up here. I didn’t plan on having to tell you my life story. I didn’t plan on meeting someone who makes me feel —”

Dean cut me off with the beginnings of what was potentially the sweetest kiss of my life. But I pushed him back. Neither of us moved. I felt him looking at me as I looked at the door. We stood in silence. He spoke first.

“You hungry?”

And not five minutes later, there we were, sitting across from each other, spoons in our hands, working on the gallon tub of chocolate ice cream opened between us, not bothering with bowls. In a different timeline, we’d have taken it with us to the showers, eaten it off of each other before I’d have let him wash me off, then bend me over. Another time, perhaps.

We had gotten dressed again. Didn’t want to cause Sam to have a stroke if he happened to come into the kitchen. We smelled of sex, but I knew he wouldn’t have commented on it. Again, that whole nice guy thing. Dries me right up.

“People say such stupid things, when the other person in the relationship dies,” I commented.

I glanced up. Dean was eating, but listening.

“You ever have that happen? Engaged or whatever, and they die?”

He shook his head.

“People say stuff like - 'He’d want you to find love again’.” I rolled my eyes, pried up another spoonful.

“You don’t think so?” Dean asked.

“Ha. My husband? Oh, hell no. He could be a real prick. Jealous little piece of work.”

“Gotta give me more than that,” he prodded with a touch of a grin.

I shrugged. “Not much to tell. It was so cliché. Any of my male colleagues I was buddies with, especially my partner prior to him - because, you know, the list of elite snipers is just filled with chicks, I had  _so many_  I could’ve chosen as friends.”

Dean chuckled.

“He even got suspicious of  _Jody_  at one point, asked if she and I got bi-curious every now and then.”

Dean had been looking down, loading up his spoon, but I caught the expression on his face that indicated he thought it wasn’t a half-bad question to ask.

“ _Most_ cliché though - how jealous he’d get, when I outranked his stats, when they wanted me to be team leader, all that professional competitive garbage.”

“Did you ever pull back?”

“Nope. He should’ve nutted up. If he wanted to beat me? Be better.”

“Damn right,” he said, and we clinked spoons, ate in silence for a few minutes.

Then I had to do what I do - wrecking good moments, that is - so set my spoon down and sighed. “Dean, when you ask me if I wanted to… to have a good time tonight for any reason that has to do with him, I can promise you: I do it for me, and only me. Not to remember him, or to spite him, or to forget him.”

Dean set his spoon down as well, then put the lid back on the container. He picked it up, took it to the freezer, put it away. Paused for a moment after he’d closed the door.

“When I’ve planned ahead - yeah, of course I leave this in a pocket or a purse or the car,” I went on. “I don’t wear it out of sentimentality. It’s not a reminder of a perfect life. I wear it to keep me on point, never doubt those fuckers could be hiding out in anyone.”

Dean turned, looked at me with a somewhat grim expression. “So you don’t think one’s still hiding in me?”

I met his grimness with some of my own. “Don’t got a bullet through your head, do you?”

A fraction of a smile - albeit a slightly sad one - hit his lips. “Fair enough.” He padded back over, grabbed our spoons, chucked them in the sink, and walked back around the table but didn’t sit down, so I looked up, and found his face was more relaxed, that deep voice a little softer when he added, “I’d still risk it.“

I stared at him for a few beats while I regrouped. I didn’t like the mood in the air. "Wow. Pretty  _and_ stupid,” I stated.

He stared back; then, serious as a heart attack -

“So you think I’m pretty.”

I burst into laughter, raised my hands to cover my mouth, absolutely cracking up.

I assumed I wasn’t the first woman to think it - that Dean Winchester was going to be the death of me. I was also sure there was another group of women who thought  _they’d_  be the death of  _him_. Maybe I belonged in that club, instead. I’d be willing to bet the company I’d be in could end me, too. I should look them up, tuck the info away as a backup plan if my life went sideways again.

Another best practice in my line of work:  _always_  have a way out.

Dean and I did go back to the room together. We slowly took off each others’ clothes. The plan for us had changed, but not what our bodies wanted, even though the shift of our mindsets for the moment was clear.

I spread out on the bed, propped up against the pillows, let him watch me pleasure myself as I watched him sit in the desk chair and jack himself off, neither of us making much noise beyond gasps, heavy breathing. He wiped off a bit, then we licked each other clean, climbed under the covers. I am not a cuddler, didn’t take him for one either, but as Dean snuggled into me from behind, he almost immediately fell asleep.

I was lucky there was a healthy amount of older cars in that garage. Like I say - I always memorize my surroundings. I didn’t waste time looking for keys, easier to just yank the wires on the odd bird of the garage, an old sedan, spark it to life. I’d leave it at Jody’s for them to pick up; not like Dean was going to report it stolen, anyway. He’d know exactly who took it.

And now Dean would know yet another secret of mine, I thought, returning  _my_ set of lock picks to my backpack after I popped open the Impala’s trunk. I removed my rifle case, closed the trunk again. They really should think about putting an alarm on that thing.

I drove down the road. It was close to sun-up. I pushed my foot further down on the accelerator, needed to get a good amount of distance between us in case he woke up earlier than I’d predicted. I doubted he’d come after me; still good to be prudent. I thought to text Jody at the next red light, warn her she might get a call.

I didn’t leave a note because (A), not my style for one-night stands, even when there was a chance I’d have to interact with the person again, and (B), it wasn’t my style to explain myself.  _My job called_  sounded like the fraidy-cat excuse of some weepy chick who was getting attached, especially since he knew I freelanced - it would’ve reeked of bullshit.

Except it was the truth. Well, more a contact than a client. But still my job.

Like I told Dean:  _sentimental_ was not a word to describe me. I didn’t get attached. I taught my students not to get attached to their clients - emotions distract. You assess the danger. You act accordingly. You determine if a suspicious person has targeted your client. You give a fuck about why they’re doing it, because if you know the motivation, you’ll know the triggers, and if you know the triggers, you’ll be anticipatory, and being anticipatory keeps you from getting dead.

Which is why I wanted to know the demon’s motivation. It was patient. It was practiced. It was focused. And it waited to possess my husband, the one person I trusted implicitly, waited for an op where we were paired, and he was behind me, all so it could get the upper hand.

All to target  _me_.

My work with various supernatural investigators had yielded some facts. The demon who possessed my husband hadn’t been spotted in several years, apparently having been exorcised to who knew where. I also knew he’d been a lackey. Assigned to take me out.  _Not_ the one giving the orders.

Normally, I wouldn’t have left a fun time - and I’d planned on a fun time, waking Dean up with a surprise or two. But, once more, seemed the world had other plans. When I’d gotten up to pee at some point during the night, I’d swung by the room where my backpack and phone were, saw a text I’d been waiting for. I’d gotten like messages off-and-on over the years, never panning out. My most recent P.I., however, had proven himself with the minor tasks I’d tested him with.

I got the tingles, maybe even better than the ones Dean’s touch had given me, seeing those words.

_SOLID LEAD ON RED SMOKE_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sniper rushes to aid Jody, getting caught in Winchester crossfire for her trouble.

I had just gotten out of the shower and was naked in front of the mirror, squeezing my wet, finger-combed hair, when I heard a soft rapping at the door.

I sighed, glanced down at the handgun I'd left next to the sink. Anyone coming after me that was worth their salt could've just kicked in the cheap motel's plywood door. Besides, I knew who it was; no need to arrive armed.

I wrapped the thin towel around myself, holding it closed as it was too small to tuck, padded over and opened the door, an expressionless look already plastered on my face when I raised my head.

Sam briefly glanced over me, gulped.

I rolled my eyes, then raised my eyebrows.

"I, uh... thought I'd take you up on..."

I stood aside and he walked in. "Over there," I said, turning away to walk back to the bathroom, pointing at the small bottle of tequila set next to the single-wrapped plastic cups and ice bucket on the dresser. I closed the bathroom door, my privacy now gone, finished drying off my hair best I could, then glanced around.  _Shit_. I'd stripped off in the room, and knew the dress I'd been wearing had been thrown to god knew where as soon as I'd unzipped it and pulled it off. So I re-wrapped, opened the door, walked back out.

Sam was sitting on the bed, leaned against the headboard, one leg partly propped up, the other still on the floor as if he didn't want to give the impression he'd totally made himself at home. His hair had gotten longer since I'd last seen him, and it was mostly held back in an elastic. He still had on the long-sleeved plaid shirt from earlier but it was unbuttoned atop his white tank undershirt now. The denim had been traded for loose track pants, untied boots thrown over bare feet for his walk to my door.

He was sipping on my tequila, and he'd brought the bottle over to the nightstand next to him. He'd also gathered and straightened up my things. The shoulder holster was hung on a chair, and the now un-crumpled dress was draped across the back of the other chair, pumps aligned neatly underneath it. He met my eye, I shot him an odd  _look_ , then walked to the dress.

"You're putting that back on?" Sam asked.

"My go-bag was in my car."

"What?"

I turned to him. "Got the call, grabbed some gear, got in the jeep, came to you. My options are naked or this, soooo..."

I could practically  _feel_ the heat radiating off of his bright red blushing. Good. I wanted him to feel embarrassed, ashamed. He deserved it.

Earlier that night, when I'd turned my phone back on upon getting home, it was filled with messages. I'd just gotten in from doing some recon; well, recon of a sort. It required a low-cut black dress with a mostly open back that was a little too tight and a little too short, though not so short as to reveal the upper thigh holster and switchblade strapped to it. The rest of my uniform only consisted of diamond studs, and black patent pumps with ankle cuffs that fastened via a shiny zipper up the back.

Jody had been at my old house helping me pack up my husband's things when they'd arrived; I'd ordered them to wear out on our one-year anniversary. The anniversary we'd never gotten to. She had opened them for me, absently commenting on what great "fuck-me pumps" they were without thinking, but the moment of levity had made me laugh for the first time since that night. Jody said she'd buy them off me, but I kept them. Turned out to be a valuable piece of tactical gear in the long run.

Valuable for the current leg of my mission, at least - an expensive dinner, the third that week, full of light groping and fingering under the table, with my latest lead on Red Smoke, which is what I'd taken to calling my target. My lead was a good fifteen years older than me, but quite handsome, reminded me of that actor on that show, the one that Jody's kids called "a silver fox". Shitty kisser, but easy to keep at bay with teasing promises of the next time. He liked me, and he would  keep liking me, for as long as it took. I needed to know what all exactly his reportedly shady dealings involved, how exactly he’d gone from rags-to-riches in just under a decade.

I was now on my own. My latest P.I. had gotten taken out. I hadn't heard from him for several weeks following the text I’d gotten after my night with Dean. He'd never answered my return call, was never at his office. Despite a slew of fake names, I finally tracked down where he lived. Good timing, too.

Found crime scene tape, cops, coroner, the smell of rotting flesh spilling out into the apartment building's hallways. Courtesy of a fake badge Jody’d helped me with, a neighbor told me they'd called the police once the stench had gotten so bad. Pity they didn't know the smell of human decay well enough to separate it from the smell of garbage in their minds.

I wasn't going to involve anyone else. Not really out of care for my fellow man; more because trails of bodies could lead back to me. Which is why I hauled ass to the P.I.'s office and torched it. The cops would just assume it was his killer, and in a round-about way, I suppose that was true. I  _had_  probably gotten him killed.

Sam thought I had gotten Dean killed.

At least, that was the impression Jody had, it was amongst the things she'd relayed in the first few voice mails. Seems Dean had been a busy boy. To Sam, he referred to his secretive solo outings as "snipe hunts", and the younger man had finally put two-and-two together, namely because of the condition in which his brother would return. Sometimes physical signs, mostly behavioral signs, both telling Sam that Dean wasn't going on fool's errands; he was hunting for  _me_.

And Sam had not been shy when sharing his theory with Jody. I already knew Dean had been pestering Jody for my current address, the house that wouldn't show up on any background check because I was paying my rent in cash to the little old lady who owned it, keeping it under the table so she wouldn't have to claim the income. Dean kept saying he didn't want to bother me, just wanted to check on me. Jody knew he'd been texting me sporadically since my disappearing act, but also knew I wouldn't get in deeper with him.

Not now. Not when I was getting close. And Dean had respected Jody when she firmly told him she was not breaking my confidence. It seemed, however, that he  had not taken my desire to distance myself from him to heart.

There were at least a dozen messages screaming at me, texts and voice mails, all over the span of a few hours. The texts were garbage, short spurts of  _CALL ME_ -s and  _911!-_ s and  _WHERE ARE YOU_ -s. The longest text was the first: 

_Dean's in bad trouble. Sam doesn't want you involved. Need you to be._

Three words into her initial voice mail, I turned and immediately went to the large safe in the basement, not because of  _what_  she was saying - I could get filled in on Dean’s journey into stupidity later - but because of the panic in her voice. Putting it on speaker, I laid it on the long metal table that lived against the wall. Grabbed the large duffel, laid it out on the floor, spun the dial on the safe, clicked to the next message. More panicked, but still focused, now describing the location I'd be going to, outlining what she knew of the opposition.

Good girl. Jody was scared, but she was with it enough to relay precisely the things I'd have asked. And by the sound of it, the logistics of the location were more of an issue than its occupants.

I smiled, removing my favorite rifle, the one that was like another limb for me, the one for which I didn't need a thousand fancy accoutrements to nail anyone - or, now-a-days, any _thing_  - on the other end. So to the bag I only added a suppressor, a night-vision scope,  and a small box of the appropriate ammo. Then on second thought, the laser sight - not for need, just because I wanted these assholes to know they were about to meet their maker.

Next message. I threw on a shoulder holster, pulled a .9 mil, made sure the mag was full. Satisfied, I fastened it in. Squatting in front of the low shelves, I looked over the rest of my options. Now Jody's voice had gone to an angry tone, demanding to know where the hell I was, what happened to the promise I'd made to Dean, that I'd be there for them if they needed me. I chose two flat packages, stuffing them in the bag along with their corresponding remote triggers, tuning out the rest of her rant.

Next message. Obvious tears, a new pitch, a catch in her usually strong voice. I felt my neck and face flush with anger.  _Fucking Winchesters_. But, more information through the tears - my latest targets were using a webcam to communicate with Sam. So he could see and hear a live feed of what they were doing... what they  _had_ been doing... to Dean. For the past 36 hours and counting. I shook off my annoyance at Sam's abject idiocy for waiting so long to reach out for help.

And not to me - I'd not heard from them regarding help on a job since the hunt we'd gone on almost five months prior. Even though now they were close;  _very_  close. Just as close in proximity as they were to Jody, they knew I lived near her, and in a situation like this I couldn't imagine how they thought a sheriff could lend the same level of assistance.

I swung the bag over my shoulder, picked up the phone in one hand, grabbed one of several burners plugged in and charging along the backside of the table with the other. I dialed a number I'd had memorized for years. I made mental note to wipe it down and toss it at some point on the road.

A former bureau colleague of mine in surveillance had believed me when I'd said I thought we were targeted that day, though I’d phrased it as suspecting the  _team_  had been targeted. It was, after all, at least moderately probable - the intelligence on the op was shown to be false. The subsequent investigation had revealed no evidence of a threat anywhere in that building, but of course the intel failure didn't make it to the official report, what with all the room detailing my supposed break-down had taken up.

I always thought he felt somewhat guilty about that, even though he was a low-level analyst, because he had a bit of a thing for me. And he'd proven it by agreeing to be my contact on the inside. I had a favor still on the books, courtesy of the quick oral thank-you I'd bestowed upon him. So fuck the Winchesters again, for forcing me to use the favor on them.

Next message. Told me she was about to go back to where she and Sam were positioned, told me where, then went into borderline hysterics, which I hadn't heard coming out of Jody since I held her in my arms and she released all the pain, describing the night her dead son tore apart her husband. I stopped the message before it even finished; “furious” didn’t even  _begin_  to describe what had flooded over me.

In the garage now, I set down the bag, grabbed a set of keys off the hook. I pulled the cover off of my husband's trusty old jeep. Battered to hell, still ran like a dream. I'd kept up its maintenance, every once and awhile still taking it out to dusty open roads, pushing it to the limit, taking curves too fast. I took the briefest of moments to run my fingers across the hood. He wasn't perfect. Our relationship was far from perfect. If I was honest, we'd gotten married partly to try and save it. But goddamn, we'd had some good times in that car.

I threw the bag in back. Cranked the engine, backed it out, left it running while I closed the garage door. Then before I peeled out into the night, I texted Jody:

_Breathe - coming to you now_

I'd gotten to the location in under fifteen minutes without raising any suspicion. It was one of several foreclosed houses that were in a gaudy, over-priced, mostly vacant subdivision filled with eyesore after eyesore about ten miles outside of the main metro area of town. I took the jeep off-road, as it were, up the cleared-off, steep hill at the back of the division. It plateaued and butted up against an undeveloped wooded area.  

According to my surveillance contact, based on the brief glimpses he could afford, the satellite showed heat signatures were sticking to the front end of the house where Dean was being kept. Not wise in terms of detection, but perhaps the trade-off was being closer to one of the still-occupied homes. A piggy back off of their wi-fi to send their feed would make sense, as their hideout wouldn't have its own.

Sam and Jody were crouched behind a fallen tree at the top of a slope to the side of the cul-de-sac where the home was located. It backed up to a particularly dense area of the trees, which was the smartest damn thing Sam had done that day, limiting his exposure. I hated him for bringing Jody into this.  _Hated_. I silently crept up on them, but not before I'd taken care of a little business.

"Thank god," Jody exhaled, squeezing my knee once I'd dropped the bag and knelt beside them.

Sam's eyes shot daggers through me, then he looked back down to his phone. The volume was low, the feed slightly glitched, but I could glimpse Dean's battered and bloody face and torso. Clearly heard the occasional grunts of pain.

"Mute that shit," I hissed.

Another glare, but Sam complied.

Jody glanced down, saw my pumps were slightly muddied, and that my calves were splattered with the same. "How long have you been here?" she whispered.

"Long enough to leave a few presents," I replied, then I looked coldly at Sam. "And take out the four perimeter goons that were gonna make you soon."  _You fucking suck at your job_ , I thought.  _Direct your hate to a mirror, not at me._ "Is he cuffed or tied?" I asked.

Sam gulped, glanced away a second, then back. "Tied. They've... they stood him up and had his arms above his head a few ti---"

I turned my head back to Jody. "I don't have any way for us to communicate once Sam and I get closer---" 

Sam started to interrupt, but I cut him off with a back-handed slap and it stunned him. 

"Shut. The. Fuck. _Up_. This was your best. Congrats. My turn." Back to Jody again, now winding my hair up in a top knot and pulling an elastic from my wrist to secure it. "So if we aren't back with Dean in ten minutes, you get the hell out. The jeep's just on the other side of this clump of trees, in another cul-de-sac. Keys are under the mat."

Jody nodded slowly and silently, absorbing what I had said. She knew why. The sheriff needed plausible deniability if things went awry.

Sam had kept silent, too, so I sat back to look at both of them. Good. Both had expressions of concern mixed with focus. I'd have preferred all focus, but I'd take it. I had already prepped my rifle with the suppressor - and used it, by that point - and was now attaching the scope as I continued.

"A surveillance contact of mine confirmed nine people, including one that was stationary - Dean. Minus the four on the perimeter, we've got four to go. There's a picnic table below us in the side yard." I looked at Sam. "That's where we start." 

I unzipped and took off my shoes, Jody looking on, staring at their scraped and muddied state wistfully. Sam and I crept down, crawling the last yard or so to the picnic table. There was a generator humming nearby, but the floodlights weren't being used, so we had better coverage than I'd hoped for, despite the bright moonlight. But these kidnappers were far from pros.

The ones on the perimeter didn't have walkies or earpieces, so the ones on the inside likely had no clue they'd been downed. I had a decent line of sight through one window on the side of the house that we faced - left completely uncovered - which let me see the doorway into the room. Had an even better line across the front porch. I continued to be in slight awe at these dumbfucks - they'd actually turned on the front porch lights.

I set my rifle down beside me as Sam and I got into crouched positions. I pulled out the remote trigger I'd stuck in the top of my dress that was being held by my strap and handed it to him. Then I pulled a second from the other side, setting it gently on the table.

"When you pop that," I whispered, "we wait one minute. If anyone runs out, let me take them. Then we pop the second." I pointed. "Dean is against the opposite wall of this room. You're going to go through this wall and get him."

I heard the intake of air as Sam was about to speak, and I quickly reached out and squeezed the hell out of his arm.

"I brought the good stuff. Thermite breach. They'll be distracted by the first one. Do you have a knife?"

"No."

I hiked up my skirt to the holster, handed him my switchblade. "Do not stop. Do not stop cutting rope. Do not stop moving with him. I have eyes on the only way in and out of that room. If you see my laser sight, do not stop. If you hear gunfire, do not stop. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

I balanced my rifle atop the picnic table. Got into mindset. Just another mission. Just another breach and capture.

I was in a goddamn cocktail dress.

Silence. Nothing but Sam and I quietly breathing. I watched one of them come into the room. Waited til he walked back out. It was the only activity for several minutes.

"Pop it."

Moments later, a horrific bang from the other side of the house. We could hear footsteps pounding around crazily. I grinned.  _Morons_.

One suddenly ran out onto the porch, holding a semi in an ineffective manner, cigarette hanging from his lips, head swiveling around. I could see the whites of his wide eyes as they searched for an answer. I had one for him.

ZIP

 _That's five_.

I directed my aim back through the window and onto the doorway of the room. "Anything?" I whispered to Sam.

"No."

I handed him the other trigger; voices carried from the far side of the house.

"Pop it."

After its detonation, I could see that the hole it made - taking out part of the window as well - was plenty substantial for Sam and Dean to get through. Cheaply made overpriced shithouse. Gotta love it. The voices faded - they were either coming around or heading back inside. Either way:

"Go."

Sam went, and fast, too. While he was freeing Dean, I spotted movement.  Someone was coming around to the side yard from the rear of the house.

_Six_

As soon as I'd gotten my first glimpse of Sam making his way back to the hole, the last two appeared at the doorway to the room. I saw the open-mouthed gasp of the one in the rear when he spotted the laser, heard his impossibly high-pitched scream when the blood spurt from the one in front splattered across his face.

_Seven_

But he scurried away, just as Sam had made it to the hole with Dean. They stumbled off the drop, both falling briefly to the grass under what was left of the window, but regrouped quickly. Dean seemed to be moving under his own strength fairly well. I didn't have time to be glad about that - one more cockroach to exterminate. Sam guided Dean to my position. 

I handed him my rifle. "Get to Jody. One of you cover me. Go."

Thank god, Sam just took it and went without a thousand questions, and I removed my pistol from the holster, shot out those stupid lights, then crept onto the porch.

And now, I was walking back out of the motel bathroom, clad in Sam's shirt, which hit me right below the knees. I had to admit, it was incredibly comfortable. Hopefully it would distract me from the cheap, scratchy sheets. I had gotten a room where Sam had holed up when he'd come for Jody's help earlier. Didn't feel like going to her place, wasn't up to explaining why I'd been so distant.

Dean had refused to go to the ER or to Jody's - that, and the occasional grumbled curse was all he would say, and not a word of it was to me. After Jody helped get him into Sam's room, she hugged me so hard, it almost hurt. And as she pulled away, she looked at me so sincerely, it almost made me cringe. Even more so when she spoke.

"I truly do love..."

 _Oof_.

"...those shoes."

Why do I doubt her? 

"Get out of here," I advised with a grin.

So that left me and the Winchester boys. Dean waved off everything Sam offered - food, a bath, painkillers - all he wanted was to go to sleep. I had stood quietly, leaning next to the door, holding my shoes in one hand, rifle in the other. After Dean had closed his eyes - still frowning as he turned from me - Sam tried to adjust his covers, but Dean slapped his hands away. Sam gave up, straightened his bent-over posture, and passed the frown along.

I sighed, pushed myself off the wall, opened the door. Then I stopped, turned back around. I had my mouth open to eviscerate his ego to the very core, but then thought better of it. Dean had drug him into this, I'd drug him out. It was over as far as I was concerned. Sam should still feel like an asshole for not calling on me. But they could hash out their shit on their own. Not my problem.

"If you get tired of staring into the abyss---" I glanced to Dean, then back to him "---there'll be a drink waiting for you in room 25."

Because god knew I needed one. My husband had faithfully kept a small bottle of tequila in the storage of the jeep and I'd kept up the tradition, replacing it any time I'd used it for a margarita night with Jody. He and I would do a celebratory shot together after every successful mission, back when we’d only been partners a short while. It was after one of those shots, right beside that jeep, after we were showered and back in normal clothes, and after the rest of the team members were all headed to their respective lives, that we'd shared our first kiss.

But here, now, I was going to celebrate with Sam Winchester, who - despite the gentlemanly surrender of a piece of his plaid-and-flannel collection - was still alternating between moderate disdain and mild anger when it came to his expressions and tone.

"Where did you find the last guy?" he asked. He'd poured a drink for me, and I took it from his hand as I came to sit on the opposite side of the queen bed, tucking my legs under me.

"In a downstairs bathroom," I replied, taking a sip.

"Did you ask him anything?"

"Should I have?" I asked in return, and honestly.

Sam's brow creased. "They got Dean while he'd been out looking for  _you_."

I just looked at him. Then I took another sip.

"He's concerned you've gotten involved in something dangerous."

I didn't respond.

Sam shook his head, glanced away, made a little huffing sound as he looked back to me. "You know, Dean really cares about you. That not matter at _all?_ "

Another sip.

"I don't know what all happened between you two when you were at the bunker---"

"No," I cut in. "You don't."

Sip.

We stared at each other. I was re-thinking the whole sweet and goody-two-shoes label I'd placed on him months prior. There was something... dark... something  _intense_... brewing under his typically affable demeanor.  _Interesting_.

Sam broke the stare, drank what was left in his cup, then moved to get up and, I assume, leave. But before he stood, he asked, "Do you not want to know what they did to him?"

"Will that  _change_ what they did to him? Make it better? Make  _him_ feel better? Make  _you_ feel better, if you have some company in your guilt?"

Sam's jaw tensed up, but he did seem to hear me.

"This is really good, huh?" I asked, lightening my tone, holding up my cup.

Sam's posture relaxed somewhat, and he nodded. "Yeah."

"Sam, you came down here because you didn't want to sit and stare at him, looking at things you can't figure out or fix," I continued, gently as I could muster. "So let's you and me kill that bottle and we can trade war stories til you're drunk enough to walk back in there and pass right the hell out."

He watched me carefully for a moment or two, I suppose in an effort to determine my level of sincerity. Then he poured himself another drink, sat back against the headboard, this time pulling both legs up, plopping them on the bed and crossing them at the ankles. He took a deep breath, then a healthy sip before he met my eye again. "You slapped me."

I nodded slowly, trying not to smile.

Sam looked back to his drink. "I think I needed it," he admitted.

Now I  _did_  smile. 

"So, what do you want to hear? Wendigo or vampire?"

I chuckled. "One of each, please."

It wasn't until we were nearing the end of our best stories, as well as the end of the bottle and dancing at the line of sobriety, that Sam's mood seemed to shift to that darker place again. Dark, but honest.

"I have a hard time getting what he sees in you," Sam stated.

I raised my eyebrows. "Golly gee, Sam. Thanks?"

Sam laughed. "I didn't mean---"

I laughed, too. "Yeah, you did!"

"No!" he insisted, and while he was sitting himself up straighter against the headboard, managed to slosh the last of the tequila in his cup out, onto, and rolling down his undershirt. "Oh shit," he muttered.

I took his cup from him as he stood. "It's just an undershirt."

"No, I'm bummed about the tequila!" Sam replied with a wide smile, which was obscured briefly as he pulled the wet shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. He flopped back down on the bed again.

Dean was well-built, but christ-on-a-cracker. I clearly had  _no_ idea what had been lurking under baby brother's exterior. I chugged the rest of my drink, begging it to burn its way down and kick in quickly so my epiphany wouldn't show on my face.

Sam picked up the bottle but I shook my head vehemently. "No no no no, sir," I said, setting our cups on the bedspread. I made a  _gimme_ motion with my hands and he grinned, passing it over. "You have wasted, but I am benevolent," I informed him.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmm-hmmm. The last of this will be distributed equally." I unscrewed the cap and Sam observed as I carefully poured. I lifted them up to eyeball them once, adjusted the amount again. I nodded my head. "That'll do," I stated, handing him a cup, then holding mine toward him. "Last call. Got a toast?"

Sam thought for a second, then slowly shook his head and met my eye. "Nope."

"Nope, it is."

We did our shots, then Sam stacked our cups and leaned a little to set them on the nightstand.

"Oh, whoops," I commented, feeling the empty bottle bump against my calf with the movement of the mattress.

Sam was just leaning back when I shuffled in his direction, still on my knees, then leaned across him, planting a hand on the mattress to balance myself, putting the empty bottle on the night stand as well.

I'd shuffled onto the front hem of the shirt, feeling cool air as the back got hiked up, but my lack of any other garment didn't register until I felt Sam's fingertips ever-so-barely touch the bottom curve of the ass cheek closest to him, then slowly trail down the back of my thigh before it faded away. Though I'd set the bottle down, I didn't move, hand still planted on the mattress to the side of his hip.

"I saw you," Sam said, barely above a whisper, his fingertips repeating the touch, leaving no doubt that I'd misinterpreted or imagined anything. "That night. I saw you and Dean by the staircase."

I tensed slightly, brought my other hand down to grip the mattress. I needed the support. Not because I was drunk. Because I didn't feel as uncomfortable at his touch as perhaps I should've been. Because of what had already started between Dean and I.

"Did you?" I asked, not looking at him. The tracing from cheek to thigh and back up continued, meandering a bit to my inner thigh on the next pass.

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Do you think I should feel embarrassed?"

"No."

Sam's fingers pushed the hem of his shirt a little higher, exposing more of my ass. I glanced over at him. He was watching his fingers.Up, over, down, up, over, down.

"Do you think  _you_ should be embarrassed?"

A tiny smile and chuckle. "I don't know."

"Are you?"

"No." The smile faded. The shirt hem got pushed a little higher. The fingers drifted a little further. "I got so hard," he whispered, still watching his fingers.

I wanted to hear more. "Tell me."

"The sounds the two of you were making..."

Sam's fingertips pressed a little harder, no longer on the back of my thigh, only going from my cheek to my inner thigh now.

"...how Dean's hand was moving in your pants..."

The shirt hem was resting on my lower back, my ass completely exposed now.

"...how you were grinding your pussy."

My eyes fell closed briefly, and I shivered when, on that last word, Sam's fingertips barely grazed that very area. A glance downwards showed me perhaps Sam  _did_ know what Dean saw in me. And I tilted my head towards him again. "Were you as hard as you are now?" I asked.

He met my eye, his hand still moving, though not as quickly, the fingers lingering as they moved to the center, drifting up between my cheeks then slowly moving back down. "Harder."

"What did you do?"

"Went back to my room." Another pause at my ever-dampening entrance, then back up, over my taint, over my asshole, back down.

"Then what?"

"Thought about the two of you fucking."

"While you stroked it?"

"Til I came."

The corners of my mouth went up. "But you just can't figure out what he sees in me."

Sam's eyes flashed and a wicked little grin came to his face. "I know you wouldn't kiss him, he told me. And that you didn't fuck him."

I narrowed my eyes. "Then I guess you know all there is to know.  _Sammy_."

Sam's grin disappeared, but his touches continued, albeit more firmly, more the pads of his fingers than just the tips.

"Why'd you come down here?" I asked, trying to take a little edge off my tone.

"Why didn't you kiss him?"

"Why'd you come down here?" I asked again, harshly, because fuck my tone.

"Why didn't you fuck him?"

I rolled my eyes, sighed, then began to move to sit up when suddenly Sam came forward, pressing his lips into mine. Though he'd made the bold move, he suddenly hesitated. And I immediately got annoyed at this boy and whatever game he was trying to play.

I pushed my lips back against his, deepening the kiss. Sam responded in kind, and I opened my mouth, letting his tongue in to wrestle with mine. I pivoted, bringing my body around, one knee on either side of his thighs. He gripped my bare ass in his huge hands, squeezing with every thrust of our tongues.

"You're a good kisser," I breathed out when he moved his lips down my neck. Sam licked his way back up, bringing his mouth to mine again. I sucked on his bottom lip. A small groan emerged from his throat. As I pulled away, letting my teeth pull on the lip a bit as I did, I whispered, "I didn't kiss Dean because I didn't want to. I'm kissing you because I  _do_ want to."

Sam looked at me with hooded eyes. I felt his erection pulse beneath me. I leaned in for another round of kisses, and this time they were deeper, rougher, more tangled than before. He wrapped his arms completely around me, pulling in tightly, pushing my naked pussy directly against the rock-hard bulge.

"Ask me," I whispered when we pulled back from the kiss and were each catching our breath.

Sam didn't hesitate. "Do you want to fuck me?"

I looked at him seriously. "Will you promise to put it all the way inside of me?" I pushed my pelvis into him and his eyelids fluttered.

"Yes," he gasped.

"Will you pound me til I come?"

"Oh god yes," Sam practically moaned, gripping my ass so tight I knew I'd have bruises.

"Stand up."

I moved off of his lap, raising back up on my knees as he stood. The tip of his cock was peeking above the waistband of the track pants. I gently pulled the pants down, licking my lips, getting wetter and wetter in anticipation. Sam's cock was thick, and while it wasn't the girth of Dean's - because, fuck, whose  _was_? - it was easily an inch longer. I knew immediately it would hit me in every conceivable spot.

While I briefly contemplated attempting a blow job, I just couldn't wait any longer. I felt slick drops beginning to run out of me at just the sight. So I gently gave the tip a little lick and a tiny kiss. And then I turned around, still kneeling on the mattress, raising my ass and presenting my wet pussy to him. I heard an audible gasp, but then Sam seemed to recover quickly because the next thing I knew, he had entered me.

"Oh, fuuuuck," I groaned at that first long stroke, willing myself not to push back into him, wanting him to take the lead, see what the younger Winchester would be bringing to the table.

"Holy shit," Sam gasped, gripping my hips as I felt him adjust his stance. He began to pull back but paused before he got a rhythm going. I glanced over my shoulder. "Did you mean it?" he asked in the lowest register I think I'd ever heard his voice take.

"Mean what?"

"Pounding?"

I grinned, and then turned away from him once more, this time extending my arms in front of me and grabbing up two fistfuls of bedding, preparing to brace myself. " _Sam_. I don't say  _anything_  I don't mean."

The next thrust was deeper, and on the third, he was completely ensheathed, those luscious hip bones grinding into me. "Oh  _yessss_ ," I heard him hiss, just as he ramped up the speed.

Before long, my entire body was being jolted as Sam took my instruction to heart, pounding, swiveling every now and then so he made sure his dick hit every square inch. He was back to kneading my ass cheeks, pulling them apart, squeezing them back together, thumbs running over and pressing around my asshole.

I leaned down more, resting on my forearms and arching my back, now unable to resist pushing myself back onto him, matching his thrusts. Better braced, I used one hand to unbutton the borrowed shirt, letting it fall open so my breasts could move freely, and my erect, sensitive nipples wouldn't keep scraping across the fabric. Then I moved my hand lower. 

Sam moaned as I made a V with my index and middle finger, placing them so he felt an extra bit of pressure with every pump. "Stop, I don't want to come yet," he managed, and then he pulled out, grabbed me by the waist, turning me around and pulling me up to face him.

As Sam crushed his mouth to mine again, our tongues angrily battling each other, he slid his shirt off of me, throwing it away, then wrapped his muscled arms around me, smashing our naked bodies together. I put my hands on either side of his face then drug them down, pressing into his pecs, over his nipples, over every taut ab. Right as I was about to stroke his cock, he looked at me and spoke.

"Did you do this with Dean?" Sam asked, his voice husky, his eyes seeming almost angry as he pulled me closer, running the fingers of one hand between my ass cheeks again, pulling moisture from my pussy to my taint and asshole, letting his finger linger there, stroking over it.

And though he knew the answer, I confirmed it for him. "No."

Another quick trip, gliding down, returning with more wetness, pressing his middle finger more firmly to my asshole. "Did Dean touch you here?"

"No."

Now pinning my body against his with his left arm, Sam reached between my legs from the front with his right hand, jamming his first three fingers inside my cunt all the way to the knuckles, making me yelp in surprise. He brought the dripping fingers out, up and over my hip, smearing the wetness down my crack, swirling his middle finger on my asshole, pushing in with every rotation til he was slowly fingering my ass, in and out, increasing the speed.

I clutched onto his shoulders, as he let my torso go. I was groaning into his neck as he grabbed my right cheek with his now free left hand, pulling it to the side, opening me more, gliding another finger inside, scissoring, up, down, side to side, fast and rough.

"Did you let Dean stretch your asshole?" he asked, pumping and pumping, his cock even harder between us.

"No!" I gasped, digging my fingers into his shoulders, and he captured my mouth  in another wild kiss. 

He eased his fingers out gently, but then clamped down on my hips as he ended the kiss to look at me dead in the eye. "I'm going to fuck you so hard," he stated, then pushed me backwards.

Leaning back on my elbows now, I looked up to him with a cheshire grin. His face was set in such an authoritative mode, he looked nothing like the little brother I'd associated him with in my mind. He stared down at me, eyes roaming over my breasts, then to my crotch, then back to my eyes as he gave his cock several fierce tugs. He grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed, doubled it over.

"Raise your hips," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," I replied, and he stuffed the pillow under me, tilting my pelvis completely off the bed. I let my knees fall open, the cool air hitting my hot core and making me shiver. 

He gave his cock another few strokes, eyes never leaving my crotch. "Spread your legs."

I complied.

"Wider."

I did as I was told.

Sam reached down with both hands, studying every fold intensely, running his thumbs over, around, then between the puffy outer lips, pointedly ignoring my huge, engorged clit. He ultimately planted his knuckles on either side of my entrance, his thumbs continuing to keep my folds and lips to the side, pushing my hips even wider, opening me completely. 

"Fuck, you've got a pretty pussy," he muttered. Then he met my eye."Did Dean go down on you?"

"He licked me clean after I made myself come," I replied with a raised eyebrow, fully aware that I was taunting him. "Does that count?"

The side of Sam's mouth twitched up briefly before he broke eye contact and practically dove between my legs, thrusting his tongue in-and-out of my cunt, dragging it up and finally, blessedly, paying much-needed attention to my clit.

I sighed, letting my head fall back as he suckled at it, his lips as delicate as his thrusts were rough, thumbs still keeping my swollen lips to the side so he could occasionally run the tip of his tongue over and between every fold, swirling it around my entrance before plunging it in again.

And then Sam moved to a kneeling position beside the bed, putting my boosted pelvis more on his eye-level. I missed his face and his mouth, wanted it back in my pussy, and made a little whimper sound involuntarily. He didn't make me wait. Returning his lips to my clit, he again sucked at it, then up, over, under with his tongue, though when he moved down, he changed his pattern, going further, spreading my cheeks, running his warm tongue over my tender asshole for several moments then moving back up, kissing along my inner thighs til he stood. Then there was one last order as he moved to kneeling in front of me on the mattress:

"Put my cock in your cunt."

I reached down, barely had the tip in my entrance when Sam shoved it completely inside of me. I had no footing, nothing to brace myself with, so I extended my arms up and behind me, grateful I was close enough for my palms to make contact with the headboard. I was practically seeing stars, my breaths coming in ragged pants now. I was so sore already, and all I wanted was more.

Every pump was rapid, and every third or fourth, Sam would pull almost all the way out before slamming in deeper, jack-hammering my core relentlessly. My breasts were bouncing wildly and suddenly his huge hands were on them, squeezing, pulling _,_  catching my nipples between his fingers, pinching, twisting. Nothing was gentle, nothing was tender, and I was grunting, craving more.

The pillow was yanked away and I felt Sam's body press down on top of me, felt his hands snake up, pull mine away from the headboard, wind his fingers through mine, his grip tight, felt his mouth crush into mine, his hips continuing their work. I wrapped my legs around him, dug my heels in below his ass and he moaned into my mouth as the shift in position let him sink even deeper.

Our eyes locked as I began to match his rhythm, the pace slowing a bit as I clenched purposefully around his cock every now and then, delighting in how it would take his breath away. A tiny bead of sweat ran from his hairline down to the tip of his nose. I grinned, and his stoic expression wavered as he grinned back.

"What?" he asked.

"You need a break."

Sam shook his head. "No way," he replied, nearly completely breathless, but increasing the speed of his thrusts as if to prove me wrong.

"Mmmmm," I hummed in pleasure, but I had a request. "Let me ride you?"

For his answer, Sam let go of my hands, putting his arms underneath me, then flipping us over so I was on top. Sitting up, he scooted us down to the end of the bed, planting his feet on the floor, keeping his arms around me and his cock inside me the entire time. We kissed like maniacs again, then just as I was beginning to find a rhythm, Sam whispered in my ear.

"What else can we do?"

I chuckled, swirling my hips, and replied, "This not doing it for you?"

"I just..."

I stopped. What the fuck was it about me riding either of these men that seemed to bring things to a weird halt? I was going to get a complex at this rate. "What?" I demanded, looking him dead in the eye.

"I.. I... I want to do things with you that... that..."

Shit. The return of the  _Aw, Shucks_   _Sam_.

"That's different than what Dean and I did?" I finished for him.

A timid nod.

I climbed off of him.

"Wait, no--" Sam began.

"Here's one thing that's different: Dean and I didn't talk this much about  _Dean_ when I was naked with  _Dean_ and playing with  _Dean's_ cock and grinding on  _Dean's_ fingers - get it, Sam?"

Sam seemed dejected, and I was so angry at myself for thinking I could fuck my way out of feeling... feeling...

Feeling so helpless seeing Dean so hurt.

Because I  _did_ ask the eighth goon why Dean was taken. Assured him I'd let him go if he was honest. He told me they were hired to take him and rough him up because he'd been asking around about me in all the wrong circles. That Dean was bringing attention to me, and there were other parties who did not appreciate it. The crew would get a bonus if they drew Sam out too, triple pay if they brought back proof of death on both Winchesters. I told the goon I believed him before I pulled the trigger.

So, yeah. It was me. Dean was hurt because of me.

And now I felt like seeing Sam hurt more.

"As a matter of fact - how many times have you said  _my_  name tonight, hmmm? Because I lost count of how many times you've said your  _brother's_ name about five or six 'Deans' ago."

Sam remained completely quiet, looking at me with glassy eyes.

I picked his shirt up off the floor and tossed it to him. "Thanks," I said flatly, then went to the bathroom and turned on the water.

I heard the door close a few moments later.

I climbed in the shower and burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sniper gets the answers she’s been waiting - and almost dying - for, regarding both her past and, potentially, her future.

I kept testing the strength of the chair I was in, but all in vain. The wood was too thick for me to boost up, slam it down to the floor, splinter it. The cuffs keeping my arms wrapped around the chair’s back weren’t terribly tight on my wrists; I was debating which thumb to attempt a dislocation on so I could have a free hand.

I sighed.  _How the fuck did I get here?_

No. Denial wouldn’t help anything at this point. I knew  _exactly_ how.

I started replaying the recent past in my mind. Starting with that morning. The morning after we’d rescued Dean. The morning after Sam and I had fucked each other nearly raw. 

I’d been awakened early when I heard the Impala roar to life.

I had to get out of there, get back to the comfort of my own home, scrub myself even cleaner than I’d done in the long shower the night before. I’d stood in it til the water ran cold, though I still burnt inside when I’d laid down, falling asleep only via exhaustion. I could still feel Sam all over me, and not much of it made me feel badly. Enough of it did.

The knock on the door as I’d just finished getting dressed surprised me.

I opened it, and to my shock, there stood Dean. I assumed he and Sam had left together, headed back to Kansas. I felt that heat shoot back over me, but this time it was anger, that Sam had left Dean to wake up alone in that gross motel room.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “I guess I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

I shook my head.

“If it’s not asking too much, could you take me over to Jody’s?”

You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

“I called her for a ride…”

He still hadn’t made a move to come in. I still hadn’t made a move to let him. Or look him in the eyes.

“…but she got called in early. Some sort of leftover drama from a bar brawl,” he continued with a small chuckle. Then he winced, briefly grabbed his torso, coughed.

“Um, yeah. Let me just get my keys,” I mumbled, turning, walking over and picking them up off the dresser.

Dean stepped in then, just inside the doorway. As I turned back, I noticed he was looking at the nightstand, to the empty tequila bottle, the stacked cups. I grabbed the trashcan from beside the dresser with my free hand, hustled over. Holding the keys by the fob in between my teeth, I tossed the cups and the bottle into the trashcan with a clang, then dropped it all unceremoniously to the floor. Moving away from it - and the bed, and the brief flash of a memory - quickly, I snatched the keys from my mouth, brushed by him and out the door, headed towards the stairs down to the parking lot.

“C'mon,” I said over my shoulder as I passed.

I heard the door close, then his footsteps behind me.

I’d already gotten the engine cranked and my seat belt on by the time he’d slowly made it down the steps and over to me. Another little grimace as he climbed up into the passenger seat. A slow exhalation as he pulled the seat belt across his obviously sore chest and settled back.

Both sides of his unshaven jaw were bruised, one further along in healing than the other. His bottom lip was split and crusted with a touch of dried blood. One eye was still almost completely closed with swelling, a small gash where the skin had pulled apart over the browbone. He looked like hammered shit.

I wish I’d had my heels on when I found the last kidnapper. I’d have driven one into his skull. Maybe before I took him out, maybe after.

We drove to Jody’s without a word.

I parked in her driveway, then cut the engine, pulled my keys out, unbuckled. Choosing Jody’s key from the ring, I held it between my fingers as I opened my door, began to get out. Dean put his hand on my forearm.

“She told me where the spare’s hidden,” he said quietly.

I nodded, pulling my foot back inside and shutting the door, and Dean unbuckled his seat belt with his free hand - his other hadn’t left my arm. I cleared my throat, kept my head straight, still not looking at him, though he’d shifted in his seat, turning toward me.

“Thank you,” he said, still speaking in a quiet voice.

I nodded again. “I told you - anytime you guys needed me.”

“I need you.”

I stiffened; he noticed, took his hand away.

“Not what I meant,” I replied, my gaze drifting down from the window to the steering wheel.

“I know.” He paused, and several moments of complete silence passed before he spoke again. “You wouldn’t reply to my texts. I’d heard you were out chasing demons–”

“You heard right,” I cut him off harshly. No point in pretending.

“I don’t want you to think I was texting just to… just because of… just because.”

“Okay.”

“I can help. If you’re trying to go after–”

“I’m not. That one’s long gone.”

A sigh from those perfect, battered lips. “I  _know_. And I’m pretty sure I also know who you  _are_ going after. He’s bad news, Snipes.”

_Here we go with that fucking nickname again_ , I thought. Despite the usage of his chosen endearment for me, Dean’s tone was now growing firmer, tougher. At least that was a positive sign. He was getting back to his old self.

I looked skyward for a moment, let loose my own sigh, brought my eyes around to his as my head came down. “I’m not going to apologize to you for… for  _this_ ,” I told him with an equally firm tone, gesturing up and down at his nearly-broken body. “You got yourself into my mess. I didn’t ask you to. I’m not asking you to now.”

Dean’s eyes bore through me. “And I don’t  _need_ you to ask.”

I jerked my head away then, resuming my blank stare straight ahead.

More silence.

“That’s a hell of a dress,” Dean commented, switching tone again.

“Do you have a way back to Kansas?” I asked, ignoring his attempt at lightening the mood.

“Why? You offering to take me?”

“I’m asking because I don’t want you this close to my home. To my life.”

“To you?”

I looked back at him. “What is it you want from me, Dean?” I asked, completely exasperated. “To date me? Take me out to dinners and movies? Hold hands and walk through parks? Look at kids playing and imagine they were ours? Or maybe be a super-hero team, driving around in your Batmobile, fighting evil?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just think we should find out what this is, what–”

“There is no ‘this’,” I practically shouted. “You have  _no_ concept of what a horrid person I am. The only reason you want me is because you think I don’t want  _you_ , that I’m putting on some hard-to-get bullshit act. It’s not an act. Take a hint.”

That battered jaw twitched as it clamped, his good eye narrowing, and he responded through grit teeth. “You’re lying. I’m not stupid.”

“Then stop  _acting_ stupid,” I hissed, adopting a glare of my own. Then I opted not to pull any punches. He needed to know. Dean needed to know I wasn’t good enough. Not for him. That maybe I never  _was_ … and definitely not now. “Whenever that son of a bitch decides to show up, you ask him. You ask Sam what kind of person you’re wasting your time on. Maybe then you’ll stop this fucking dead-end mission you’ve got such a hard-on for.”

I looked away again, jammed the key into the ignition, started the jeep up, hoping against all hope Dean would get out, walk away from me, and for good this time.

“You think I don’t know?” Dean shot back, that strong, deep voice carrying above the engine.

I didn’t acknowledge him, though a chill went down my aching spine, the prior night’s thrashing having done it no favors.

“You think I could sleep at _all_ last night, after I heard him leave, _knew_ he was going to you?” Dean reached across me, shut off the car, took the keys before I could react. “Think that I couldn’t _smell_ you all over him when he came back?”

I just sat there, stiff, mute, shocked. My eyes closed. I felt tears build up behind my lids.

“That you can push me away by fucking around?”

“It wasn’t just fucking around!” I said, astonishment painting my face as I turned wide, glassy eyes to his. “It was your br--–”

Dean’s jaw stiffened again, a flash of anger in his expression, eyes glinting with fire as he cut me off, not wanting  _brother_ to cross my lips. “I got sad, I’ll admit it, I got _real_ sad and moped around for a week when you disappeared after that night. Then I got pissed, started bar-hopping, drinking everything I saw, fucking my way through every waitress or co-ed that would have me, for months—”

“That would have you,” I repeated, making a scoffing sound and rolling my eyes. “Don’t play humble, Dean, it doesn’t suit you.”

“—and every one of them, I pretended it was you.”

I froze.

“And it didn’t work. Just like I bet fucking Sam didn’t work for you, and you best believe I’ll have it out with him,” Dean went on, absolutely fuming now. “But stop lying. You  _know_ what you felt when you were with me was different.”

I turned from him, reached up and gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline, trying desperately to keep looking straight ahead. A tear ran down my cheek. Motherfucking… I  _hated_ that this was my tell when it came to him. It had been the same with my husband. It was how he was sure he had me, that he’d won, anytime we fought and I fully aware the cause of the argument was my fault. I could keep a great poker face, could outright lie to anyone. Just not to him. And not to Dean.

Dean moved his hand, but not to my cheek to wipe away the tear, instead placing it atop my thigh, softly stroking it. I glanced down. The knuckles were battered to hell. He had fought back hard. I watched his fingers tracing a path to my knee, back to the hem of the dress, not making a move to go any higher. And oh, god help me, his touch - it was the best comfort I’d ever known. I couldn’t help briefly thinking of my husband’s touch. Of Sam’s touch.

And there was just no comparison. Not even the same ballpark. Same country. Same universe.

“You should forget about me, you should go back to your life,” I whispered, my voice trembling, not meaning it at all. My eyes drifted closed again as I felt him lean in, his other hand sneaking to the back of my neck, fingers running up into my hair, thumb gently stroking behind my ear. Then his face next to mine. Then his breath on my neck.

“You know it. Just like you know you don’t want me to go,” he whispered softly, reading my mind. “I know, because it’s what I’m feeling, too. In my gut. In my soul.”

The poetic nature of that last part would’ve normally made me nauseated. Especially coming from a hard-living, hard-drinking, try-hard womanizer like Dean. Only this time, it made me shiver to my core.

A barely-there brush of his lips near my ear. A deep inhalation, lower, near my jaw. A shuddering exhalation against my neck. Back up to my ear.

“Come inside with me,” Dean said in a resonating, thick voice of desire.

I was instantly wet.

“How can you want to touch me?” I practically whimpered, turning my now tear-soaked face to his.

The hand on my neck had slid over to rest against the side of my face. Dean brought his other hand from my leg to the opposite side. And with clear disbelief in his voice, in his creased brow, in his eyes, he answered.

“How can I  _not?_ ”

And I kissed him.

He gasped, and I thought out of pain, due to the split lip. But when I pulled back, looked at him, I saw it hadn’t been. It was surprise. Dean immediately brought his lips back to mine. I blissfully let myself get lost.

His lips were so soft and firm, all at the same time, and it was slow. Slow and meandering, no tongue at first, just focus on one lip, then the other, then both. Then delicate meetings of the tips of our tongues, no invading my mouth, my own not invading his, just touching, tasting, tiny bits of twirling, pulling back, starting again.

“Your lip,” I whispered during one of the pull-aways.

Another kiss to my upper lip. Then a small head shake. “I don’t care,“ he replied, his eyes remaining closed, and then as if to prove it, went in again, pressed harder against my mouth.

This was the second first kiss that jeep had been setting to. I’d let myself remember the first kiss I’d had with my husband, leaning against the very car I sat in now so many years later, and the memory briefly flew across my mind again. But it had flown out almost as immediately as it had entered.

Because this one, this first kiss with Dean, had blown it completely away.

It had just barely begun to deepen when a car pulled into the driveway beside us. We stopped, and I glanced over Dean’s shoulder. A squad car.

Jody.

"Mom’s home,” I whispered, and he grinned.

Jody gave me a raised eyebrow behind Dean’s back before she walked around to my side. Then she invited me in for breakfast, saying she planned on stuffing Dean to the gills with bacon and eggs, prompting him to immediately get out of the jeep with the most energy he’d had since his rescue. But I declined.

Dean stood behind Jody, looked at me sadly. I leaned down and undid the tiny zippers on my pumps. Handing them to Jody, I told her she deserved a reward for the prior night’s work.

Her eyes widened and she took them immediately, saying, “I’m not going to tell you I couldn’t possibly…”

I laughed. “Just make sure you hide 'em from the girls,” I advised. Jody grinned, then looked to the pumps, zipping them back up, and I looked at Dean when I added, “And, ah… ragamuffin over there… you can dump him at my place if his piece of shit brother takes too long to come and get him.”

A slow smile began to creep across Dean’s face.

Jody stared at me. “You sure?” she asked.

I kept looking at Dean. “Positive.”

And I meant it.

Then I looked back at Jody. “I… I need to do some… uh… re-strategizing. A few days off will do me good. Even if I have to haul his sorry ass back to Kansas.”

A little grin came to Jody’s face. “Uh-huh.”

I narrowed my eyes. "Wasn’t there a trick to getting back to Kansas, clicking heels three times or something? I may need those back,“ I said, reaching for my - well,  _Jody’s_  - shoes.

"Hell, no,” she announced, clutching the pumps to her chest before completely turning away and beginning to walk to her door. "Get off my property or I’m arresting you,“ she called over her shoulder.

"Copy that, sheriff,” I called back, then looked to Dean, held out my palm. “Keys?”

Dean turned his head, glancing behind him and making sure Jody had gone - she had, leaving the front door ajar for him. When he got to me, passed me my keys, I grabbed his hand, stared at him with all the intensity I could muster.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness—”

“Snipes—”

“—but I’ll never stop trying to earn it.”

Dean sighed, glanced away, thought for a few moments before looking to me again. “Or can we just never talk about it?”

I nodded, leaned in, kissed him chastely on the lips, let it linger for a moment before I leaned back. “Next time you call? I’ll pick up.”

One of those patented shit-eating Dean grins appeared. “You’d better,” he stated, giving the jeep a pat before backing up, then turning and walking to the door.

I waited til he’d gotten safely inside, door closed, before I cranked up the jeep and headed home. Partly out of habit. Mostly to look at his ass.

And when I got home, there, on the garage door, an odd-looking, long-bladed silver knife pierced a piece of paper. There weren’t many words on it. But they were all penned in a dark, reddish-brown hue that I knew wasn’t really ink.

**.**

_I believe we have arrived at the moment for meeting face to face._ _Please note the address and time below._ _And know your lover will have more than cuts and bruises visited upon him should you decline the invitation._

_Looking forward to seeing you this evening._

_Killer dress, by the way._

_Yours - His Majesty, the King of Hell_

**.**

I snatched the letter from the blade, then yanked the blade from the door.

And then I went blind.

I was seething, blind with rage. Blinded by arrogance. Blinded by what I felt for Dean. All I wanted was to have him naked in my bed, for hours, for days, so I could kiss every inch of him, kiss every bruise and cut, then start all over and do it again and again and again, til each one healed. Peel off my clothes, let him kiss me top to bottom, til my own wounds, the ones eating me from the inside, the ones causing me so much pain, began to ease. Maybe even disappear. I was beginning to think Dean had the power to do it.

I knew it was a trap. I knew. Just like I knew I might not have enough skill, enough weaponry to get out of it. Just like I knew the threat against Dean was not idle.

However.

Much as I had grown to dislike the pissant, Sam had turned me onto an idea. He’d never given explanation for the special rounds I’d been provided with on that initial hunt, and I hadn’t cared enough to ask. Their target was not the one I’d been seeking.

Between Jody and my former investigators, I’d learned quite a lot about the world beneath the one I’d been ignorantly parading around in all my years on this earth. Jody in particular had educated me, drawn an entire notebook full of incantations, devil’s traps, jotted down tricks of the trade, ever since I’d told her of my husband’s possession. I’d pried up doorstops and window sills, coated the gaps in strong adhesive, caked them with salt, nailed the wood back in place. Gotten blood from the butcher’s - in small amounts over time, of course - pulled up carpet and painted craziness on the subfloor, tacking the carpet smoothly atop it once more.

My home was a fortress, one perhaps comparable to the bunker, though I couldn’t know for sure. For all this King of Hell wanted me to believe he knew about me, I had no knowledge of his people - his constituents? his subjects? - ever being at my home. Til now. But the threat was left outside, not in. So maybe my little additions had worked, after all.

I was aware that what I held in my hand was what Jody and the others called an angel blade, apparently capable of taking out said angels, or their demon distant cousins. Looked plenty capable of taking out their human step-siblings, too. I suppose this King expected me to use it, a taunt of sorts, a  _bring it on_  implication.

Too bad. Though my hand-to-hand skills were decent, my knife work left much to be desired. When we trained, my husband’s reach was always an obstacle, he was always able to dodge my thrust, snatch my arm, bend my wrist til it nearly snapped, make me drop the fake practice knife to the floor. 

Then I’d pout like a child, which never failed to make him laugh. Then we’d make out, and I’d get distracted and never learn. As if I  _needed_ a reminder that distractions are deadly. But my knife skill didn’t matter. It wasn’t arrogance, it was fact.

Nothing on hell or earth could trump me if I could get a shot off.

So I wouldn’t be bringing along His Majesty’s gift. Not so he or one of his cadre of irredeemable fucks could turn it on me. No, I would be bringing along gifts for  _them_ , crafted by my own two hands, down in my basement, designed to perfection over months and countless test fires through every single handgun and rifle I owned. They represented unending hours of studying ferrous metallurgy, learning how iron and lead and steel were related, how they could be manipulated, transformed, earning more than a few welts and tiny burns to my hands and arms.

All that remained of my husband’s belongings were weaponry and worn-out cargos, but I confess to a bit of concern over having kept his ring, wearing it outside of my little fortress. Jody had mentioned a spirit’s love of attachment to certain objects if they felt their earthly business was incomplete. I’d say a bullet through the head might’ve given my husband motivation to hang around. 

So when I was etching the bullets, I etched the inside of his ring, too. Better safe than sorry and all that bullshit. Still, for this mission, I left my trusty necklace at home. Didn’t need the reminder; I was fully aware what was at stake.

I donned the cargos again. This time, nothing lived in the pockets, I wasn’t going to have anything on me that I couldn’t reach in less than a second. They were a little loose now, though - I’d lost weight since the hunting trip with the Winchesters, the stress from the uptick in my mission since then resulting in a lack of eating. And a lack of sleep. And a lack of a restful mind.

I almost put on kevlar under the black long-sleeved shirt I chose to wear, then thought better of it. Demons weren’t really firearm fans, and even so, they’d had plenty of opportunity to snipe me. That, and the fact that demons could hurt me in a million other ways than guns.

From what Jody said, there was supposedly only one gun that had ever existed that proved capable of killing them. Good. If they thought all others to be useless, it was an ignorance for me to exploit.

And I didn’t see why they’d possess me. Another thing they certainly could’ve done by now. If I’d been spied upon, as the note basically told me, then logically I’d missed demons all around me. His Royal Fucktard probably wanted that to be intimidating. Maybe it should’ve been. Wasn’t.

I was on the road, then parked about a half mile from my destination in a matter of hours. I wanted to take my time staking out the area. It was about an hour til the meet time when I felt my phone vibrate. I glanced, then ignored it. I’d selected a perch about a block from the appointed spot, high, with a good line of sight. It was the building where that fateful op had gone down - nice touch on my host’s part. May as well pop a few if I could, I figured.

I waited til I’d settled in my perch before I listened to the voice mail Jody had left.

Jody said that Sam had finally shown up not too long before she’d called. Told me she wanted a full report later on what had gone down. Sam had barely gotten inside before Dean laid him out with one punch, then followed him down to the floor, kept beating the shit out of him.

When Jody saw Sam’s nose had broken, she tried yelling at Dean. And by the time she realized that Sam wasn’t fighting back, he was losing consciousness before she was able to pull Dean off. She’d put Sam in her guest room with a ton of ice, then given Dean my address. Said he’d taken off in the Impala, was on his way to me.

I immediately shoved it out of my mind. I was still running through my ammo situation in my mind, regretting not trying more experiments with iron instead of just going with steel. Thinking I should’ve tried harder on some theories I had for a supernatural-C4 combo.

I wish I could say the entirety of my encounters inside went as smoothly as if I were the female John Wick. Not to sell myself short - the first fifteen minutes or so, I was efficient and deadly.

_Tap-tap chest._

_Tap head._

_Tap-tap chest._

_Tap head_.

I was even slightly edging out of Wick territory and dipping a toe into The Matrix.  _Bless you, patron saint Keanu_ , I thought with a grin as I took cover behind a square concrete pole. One big bastard surprised me - turned out he had been packing, the back of the pole I stood against getting peppered as he kept pumping and firing near my legs and feet.

In another bit of surprise, I had wound up at the scene of the crime. Not forty feet from me, at the other entrance to the warehouse-type area, was the door my husband and I had entered through. Not twelve feet in front of that was where he’d died. Maybe his highness had wanted it so. Rub it in, throw me off my game.

Fuck that.

I was out of smoke grenades. But I’d been counting. And big bubba was out of rounds. Pistol drawn, planning to use its next-to-last round on his head, I turned. He grinned, pumped his shotgun. His face fell.

“Aw,” I said, sticking my bottom lip out in fake sympathy, and —-

I felt myself lose consciousness before I ever hit the floor.

And now here I was, in some random room, apparently an old office as I noted a desk off to the side. They’d removed my weapons and my shoulder harness. One of the handguns, as well as the shotgun I’d yet to use, laid next to each other on the desktop along with the harness. Near them were a few of the spent smoke grenade canisters.

I was curious as to where my other handgun was, when voices rose outside the closed door - they weren’t arguing, just seemed to be in a heated discussion.

I’d hurt the crap out of myself yanking on my left thumb and only succeeding in dislocating it in the middle instead of at the base, when the door opened and two of the mealier-looking demons I’d seen came in.

“Hey, listen, we’ve gotta know,” the first one said.

“Yeah, we need you to settle a bet,” said the second.

I raised my eyebrows. I can only imagine the expression on my face. “What?” I asked sharply.

“Don’t be a bitch,” the first said, narrowing his already beady eyes. They flashed to all black.

“Just tell us,” said the second, his eyes also flashing to black.

_Just kill me._

We looked at each other in silence for a few moments.

“Tell you what?!” I finally shouted impatiently, and they actually startled.

“Oh. Yeah. These,” one said, pointing to the wasted canisters.

Then they went quiet again; I raised my eyebrows again.

“What was in them?” the other clarified. “See, I think it was holy water.”

“You think there was water in a powder-based incendiary-” I began, but was interrupted by the other.

“And I think it was some sort of, like, ground up nun’s bone.”

“Ground. Up. Nun. Bone,” I repeated slowly.

“Could be priest bone, I guess.”

“Or virgin, maybe?”

“It was Palo Santo.”

That last bit came from a smooth, crisp British accent floating through the open door.

“Sir.”

“Your Highness.”

Both bowed slightly at the waist, stepped to the side.

The immaculately dressed demon entering the room was apparently my host for the evening. He brought along with him a chair identical to the one I was in. One of the demons made a move to take it from him, but he shook his head.

“Off you go,” he told them.

I could see the big brute just outside the door, glaring in at me. There was a huge, almost tunneled gash running from below his cheekbone at an upward angle, still oozing blood. Most of his ear was gone.

I’d apparently pulled the trigger as I went down.  _Nice_. I grinned. “How ya feeling, motherfucker?” I called out to him.

He shot me the bird as he closed the door.

The Brit - rather, His Majesty - chuckled.

“Charming minions you have here,” I told him, and he smiled.

The chair positioned across from me now, the King taking to his makeshift throne, I got a good look at him.

“Not what you pictured?” he asked.

I opted to answer honestly. “I think you’re quite handsome.”

He blinked, the smile widening. “Well. Long time since anyone’s said that, my, my, my.”

“I mean, the whole demon thing’s not my jam, so there’s that.”

Another chuckle. “Seems to follow you, though.”

I accepted this. “Fair enough.”

“I find you quite impressive, my dear.” He gestured to the desk and the hardware atop it. “All of this is… remarkable, really. Nicely done.”

“You couldn’t have thought I’d have come into a trap without  _something_.”

“No, of course not! I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t. Thought you’d go with your blow-out-the-brains shtick, though. Worked so well on hubby.”

I glared.

“Which is why we had a pile of potential meatsuits waiting upstairs, just a hop-skip away. My guys and gals would’ve just come right back at you in a shiny new package.”

“Had?”

He shrugged. “Have, had. Might not be useful once you hear what I have to say.”

I didn’t respond. He sighed, stood up, removed a small key from his pocket, and walked behind me. I felt him grab the wrist with the partially dislocated thumb.

“Oh, this doesn’t look good,” he commented, then wrenched it, doing for me what I couldn’t manage before and completely dislocating the thumb from my hand, breaking it for good measure.

“Mmmmpphh,” I grunted through tightly pressed lips as the pain shot up my arm.

He lingered a moment, leaning in close, breathing in, smelling me from the collar of my shirt up to the top of my head. Then he unlocked the handcuffs, let them drop to the floor. He came around to stand in front of me, hands in pockets, perhaps so he could make sure I noticed the bulge beginning to form.

I brought my hands to the front. I winced as I touched around my thumb. It was already plenty swollen and beginning to grow discolored.

“I’m Crowley, by the way,” he said, removing a hand from his pocket and extending it. When I didn’t take it, he shrugged once again, then went back to sitting in his chair. He started to cross his legs, then adjusted almost immediately. I snickered.

“Are we gearing up for something?” I asked, aware of how contemptuous my voice sounded. “That why you uncuffed me? Gotta warn you, I won’t be at the top of my game with only one good hand.”

Now  _he_  snickered, and his eyes flashed… red. That was new. Must go with  _his_ shtick. The eyes had returned to normal by the time he replied.

“My dear, if I wanted to have you, no part of you would be unbound. I’d have you trussed up like a spring chicken and waiting for me on a pile of silk bunting. Perhaps allow your new buddy out there to get you good and broken-in ahead of time.”

I stared at him, expressionless. He blinked first. Good to know my poker face could still work with somebody.

“But, no. Not why you’re here,” he went on.

“I doubt you plan on telling me why I’m here.”

“Oh, on the contrary!” Crowley exclaimed. “Don’t you hate it when the big bad spills his plans, then walks away so the good guy - or, in this case, only mildly decent woman - can escape, live to fight another day?”

I stayed silent. I genuinely had no idea where this was going. Just wanted it to get there fast.

“See, I do love a good trope. I did intend on letting that scenario play out, thought it’d be a hoot to watch you try and get out of here alive, but, again - I’m impressed. Wanted to make you an offer.”

He stood, clasped his hands behind his back, winding his way around the room like a serpent as he continued.

“I thought since your worth to me is rapidly nearing an end, I’d do something a little out of the ordinary for our kind. The option of running the gauntlet is still there, of course. Though you  _should_ give serious thought to my offer. You see, we don’t have to ask permission to possess. But I find if the human is agreeable - as my current outerwear was - the longevity is extended to a remarkable degree. And I have just the demon in mind for you. Identifies as female, loves killing, loves fucking. Why - the two of you are practically a match made in heaven!” A pause. “Hell. Anyway, you get the drift.”

“You want me to be a demon…” I said, trailing off.

A curt nod. “My own personal assassin. You’d report directly to me. You’d have more autonomy than anyone else in my kingdom. I’ve wanted a professional killer on the payroll for quite awhile. Focused and efficient, won’t leave a messy trail. Serial killers are sloppy, and either too insane or too controlling; either way, they fight being possessed to the point we just toss them into the pits. It’s just too much trouble to try and raise them right when they’re already so tainted. But you’re already just the right amount of bad. Already a lot of moral and ethical malleability. Won’t take too long to break your will, I don’t expect.  _So_ much self-loathing.”

Crowley’s eyes were sparkling and his grin was absolutely wicked. But he was in full word-vomit mode, clearly loved the sound of his own voice; so I thought on my response for a brief moment, then I went for it.

“I’ll consider it. If you answer - honestly answer - a question I’ve had for five years.”

“I take it to be about darling husband?”

I nodded. “It’s clear I was the target. Why didn’t the demon possessing him kill me?”

“He wasn’t supposed to. He was supposed to make you do exactly what you did: force your hand into protecting either your team or yourself by killing your husband.”

I felt my brow knit up. “I don’t under–”

A sigh, and Crowley took his seat once more. “My sweet, sweet little murderous kitten. You are one of Jody Mills’ best friends, are you not?”

I nodded again. He knew that.  _Get to the point_.

“And  _she_ is tight with the Winchesters. And I have grown utterly tired of the Winchesters. We have a history, to say the least. Particularly Dean and I. It’s possible I know him better than he knows himself.”

“Holy shit,” I muttered, making a realization. I leaned forward a bit. “Did you have something to do with Dean being a demon?”

“Dean didn’t have far to go. Not that you do, either. But his soul’s conversion was the proverbial piece of cake.”

“His soul,” I repeated.

“Lovie! You didn’t think he was merely possessed?!”

I don’t know what expression crossed my face, but now a hearty series of laughs erupted from Crowley, so much so he shook.

“He didn’t tell you?! Oh! Oh, that’s just… Oh, I just  _adore_ this, it’s too good!”

I leaned back, processing.

“But to finish answering your question - we knew enough about you to know you’d be hell on wheels after 86'ing your man. We also knew that delectable sheriff would likely spill the beans about a hunter’s life, and we knew if we were patient enough, you’d end up somehow entangled with the Winchesters.” Crowley looked me up and down, slowly, lasciviously. Ran a tongue over his lips. Then he met my eye. “The creator himself could not have designed a more perfectly appealing creature to capture Dean from tips to toes. Given your nature along with his, though, I’d have only expected the two of you to be fuck buddies. But now…” Crowley took a moment to run his eyes over my breasts one last time before looking back up and completing his thought. “Well, now I know he’s a sure thing.”

“Sure thing? That right? What are you so sure about?”

“That he’ll come for you,” Crowley replied simply, rising from his chair and scooting it aside. “See, darling, I’m done. I’ve joined in on their little gang’s shenanigans more times than I can count, risked - and lost - my standing in the demon world on one too many occasions. Been one of the browncoats, stormed castles, fought Satan himself, all that goddamned bullshit, and for nothing. The entire lot of them are a boil on my ass, and your Adonis in particular.”

His voice had risen, becoming increasingly strained with every word. The eyes flashed red again. I didn’t think he’d even realized it.

“You love him,” I said softly, the statement sneaking out before I could stop it.

A steely glare was leveled at me, and the eyes went and stayed red now.

“I don’t mean… I mean to say… No one gets this angry over someone they don’t care about.”

Crowley was suddenly in front of me, delivered a punch so hard I saw stars, came clean out of the chair and hit the floor. I tasted blood in my mouth from my teeth nipping the side of my tongue when they slammed together. Concussion number two of the day.

_Sam, wherever you are, you’re in good company._

“Let me tell you something, little girl,” Crowley hissed in my ear, having taken a knee next to me and slipped his fingers under the bun I’d wound my hair into, gripping against my skull and pulling out more than a few hairs as he yanked my head back. “The next time you presume to know  _anything_ about me, it will be the last thought through this pretty head of yours.” A bit closer now, whispering in my ear. “You look  _delicious_ on your knees.”

He ran his tongue up the side of my face. I shuddered in disgust. He released me then, walked to the door, but before he left, he turned, waited til I looked up and over. His eyes were normal. His demeanor was perfectly calm. He stood as polished and together as he’d been upon first sight.

“The offer I made will be on the table until you step out of this room. My people have been instructed to do you no harm until we’ve spoken again, and you tell me your answer. And if that answer is a decline, well, then they’ve been instructed to do whatever they’d like with you, for however long they’d like.” A slimy smile, and he moved to leave, then turned again. “Oh, one last thing - someone, possibly me, has made certain that Dean knows exactly where we are.” A glance at his wristwatch. “Should be arriving any time now. So don’t take too long to decide, kitten. Hell, I’ll throw in a bonus: let my demon take you for a test drive, and you can kill Dean yourself.”

"And why would I want him dead?"

The smile widened. "Rotten soul's a pretty big lie by omission."

At that, Crowley left for good this time.

I went to the table, hoping the handgun they’d left me with wasn’t the one with only one round left. I checked - good. It was the one with a third of the mag left to go, and then there was the one on my shoulder.

The shotgun held plenty - I’d only meant for it to be a method of stunning anyway, in the event I’d gotten surrounded, but it would have to do. Especially if I got close enough - the breaching rounds with the steel bearings would shred 'em. If Crowley had a backup plan of a pile of potential hosts - and I had no reason to doubt him at this point - well… I’d have to jump off that bridge when I got to it.

“Report directly to you, my fat ass,” I muttered to myself. I got my shoulder harness back on. Time to start counting them down.

I remember emptying the gun into whatever was near me.

I remember hearing Dean’s voice calling my name from somewhere behind me.

I remember letting the empty magazine case fall to the floor when I released it, not dropping my pace as I pulled the new mag and jammed it in, bellowing at a group of demons cowering in front of me.

“Where is he?!”

“I don’t—”

_BANG_

Next demon - “Where IS he?!”

“You—”

_BANG_

“WHERE IS HE?!”

I remember going down the line like that until suddenly I was slammed against the wall. Not too far, not too high, not hard enough to hurt me. But hard enough to jar me, whip my hand back to the brick, my gun flying away.

As I slid down the wall, I saw him. He spoke, saying something like he was right there, come and get me, called me killer, or kitten, I can’t be sure. I’m sure he was holding my missing pistol, the one that had just a single round left to go.

I remember that distinct feeling of slow motion again. That I’d had before, in this very room. The feeling that preceded the death of my love.

And I remember for  _sure_  that as I came down, I made certain only one boot hit the floor so I could come off of it already moving, walking, pressing forward. Pulled the shotgun around from where it was in a custom break-away holster on the back of the harness, saw that Crowley had disappeared. Hedged my bets on where he was headed, pumped and fired directly in front of me.

Good guess.

A uniform gasp rose up from the room as Crowley had reappeared with a surprised look on his face. A lot of the shot sailed away, but enough of it caught him so that one side of his upper body got pelted, shredding through his clothes, drops of blood beginning to prick through the fabric.

His face began to draw into a little smirk.

I was going to blow it off.

I remember pumping and walking him backwards with shot after shot. He seemed to twitch a bit - maybe a failed-escape glitch? - but no red smoke appeared, he wasn’t trying to make a run for it, maybe he  _couldn’t_. I was counting rounds off aloud now, because I could still hear Dean and Sam - and was that Jody? - yelling at me over the blasts. I wanted to push their voices from my mind.

I remember thinking - I might not be able to kill this dick, but I’m sure as shit going to wreck his body, make sure he stays down. Make sure Dean gets out of here safe.

I remember emptying the gun, letting it fall from my shoulder to hanging from my hand at my side, my shoulders dropping in exhaustion, glancing around and thinking it looked like a massacre, wondering how much of it was my doing.

I felt a firm grasp at my throat, something solid behind me, something sharp, pointed just under and behind my chin.

Hearing the clomps of boots rapidly pounding towards me.

“Just do it, shitbird.” I’d heard my own voice practically growl out the order, waiting to feel my throat get sliced, instead feeling the burn as the sharpness shot forward and away, slicing open my chin.

Now I felt hot breath, a raspy, accented voice hissing into my ear.

“Nice knowing you.”

The hand around my neck had disappeared. It didn’t need to be there. Because the barrel of my own gun was crushed against my ribcage.

“Fuck you.”

_BANG_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sniper gets the answers she’s been waiting - and almost dying - for, regarding both her past and, potentially, her future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was formerly 3 parts, however the 1st & 3rd were way long - splitting each into two - apologies for any confusion, RE: thinking this was new! (Although I have cleaned up copious amounts of what I found to be inelegant phrasing along the way!)

A deep, guttural howl hit my ears as I fell. It wasn’t mine; never saw much point in screaming when I got hurt. Then I recall seeing a bright light, as if a star went nova right in front of me. Windows shattering, snowflakes of glass pricking the side of my face and neck.

There was soft cottony fabric against my face. Dean’s smell. A metal smell. Feeling like half of me was lying in a warm bath. Feeling ice cold at the same time.

Jody’s tearful voice. The roar of the Impala’s engine as it was gunning, over and over. Sam saying something. Dean shouting castor… catty… casty…  _something_.

An awful whistling sound, then a gurgling sound, then I was gagging into the fabric at my face, a mouthful of liquid pouring out, but not enough to stop the choking, and I couldn’t make my throat do anything about it. I remember realizing Dean must’ve been holding me, that I was fighting to bring a hand up, feeling stickiness on his chest and belly, wondering if he was bleeding, how badly he was hurt.

And then I became aware I was lying on a hard surface. Felt my back arching away from it, shooting upwards at the waist, sitting bolt straight. I remember sucking in a massive amount of air, so much it hurt my throat and rattled my entire upper body. An odd, slightly monotone, but calming voice I’d never heard before. Dean’s voice, sounding muddied, far away, my vision caked in shadows, until….

Everything went black this time.

But now…..  _Now_ I blinked, slowly opening my eyes, carefully easing into a sitting position, trying to get my bearings.

“MOM!”

Glancing to my right, Jody’s kid - the blonde one - scrambled from her seated position on the floor where she’d been reading, tripping over her books - and her own feet - ricocheting into the hallway off of the door frame, startled into clumsiness and calling Jody something I’d have bet the farm she’d never done voluntarily before.

I looked around and saw that I was in Jody’s house, in her bedroom, in her bed, bundled with far too many blankets and pillows. I looked down, running my hands over my torso, which was clad in an old concert t-shirt I recognized as Jody’s, and saw I’d also been outfitted in pastel flower-patterned pajama pants that must’ve been the brunette kid’s, and then I took in the sight of my thumb. I wiggled it in front of my face. My broken and dislocated thumb was… perfect. I immediately pulled up the shirt, mashing and pressing. No soreness, no pain, no gunshot, no bandage, no blood. Nothing.

I touched my face - my cheek was fine. I felt my chin - no cut. And I dreaded moving, wondering how long I’d been stuck horizontal, knowing my back was going to punish me for it. But I peeled back the bedding and stood right up without an ache, without a hitch. I was frowning and pushing pretty hard on my lower vertebrae when brisk footfalls approached.

“Oh thank christ!” Jody exclaimed, throwing the dishrag she held to the floor as she rushed in, enveloped me in a huge hug. She smelled of fried chicken grease. It was the best thing ever.

I hugged her back, but then her squeezing got a little ridiculous. “Okay, Jo,” I said with a chuckle.

Jody pulled away, placed her hands on either side of my face, then adopted her don’t-you-cross-me look. “Never. Again.”

I felt my eyes get misty. “No, ma'am,” I whispered.

She picked up the dishtowel, threw it over her shoulder. “Move it. Dinner’s almost ready.”

It had been almost thirty-six hours exactly. Jody and the girls told me that - minus one slightly comatose trip to the bathroom which had taken all three to manage - I’d slept through all of them. I was ravenous for the first time in months, ate two helpings of everything. And though I couldn’t imagine being able to sleep more, I found myself groggily piling into Jody’s bed with her as night fell. We were turned towards each other, speaking quietly. Well, Jody was speaking. I was listening. Crowley had been hurt, she assured me, but he was so powerful, it had likely been a lost cause from the start.

“I know, silly,” I told her with a sad sort of smile.

“Then why the hell–”

“He threatened Dean,” I answered simply.

And Jody nodded. All the answer she needed. She’d seen love on me before, and she recognized it now. “You haven’t asked where he and Sam are,” she pointed out.

“Ah, well… they aren’t here, so… that’s all I need to know.”

Jody gave me a  _look_. “Don’t pull that nothing-impacts-me-because-I’m-a-stone-cold-bitch routine on me. I invented that before you even thought to. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, as they say.”

I just looked at her calmly, a tiny smile on my lips. I knew she was going to tell me, anyway. And part of me  _did_  want to know how furious Dean was with me. Prepare myself to leave Jody’s physically, leave Dean mentally. Move on.

She sighed. “What do you remember?”

“I thought I was dying,” I admitted. “I’ve been shot before, but shit. Saw the white light and everything.”

Jody raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that was Castiel.”

And then  _my_ eyebrows shot up. “The angel?”

She nodded. “He couldn’t get in, they’d warded and sigiled and had actually lit a ring of holy fire around the whole place before we got there. So he stood across the street, took out some of Crowley’s pricks, then—”

“And then the glory of the lord shone ‘round about me?” I finished with a wry grin.

Jody snickered. “Oh, yeah. You’ve got nothing on his breaching prowess, my friend. He’s also the reason you’re alive. Healed you right up.”

“Wow,” I said under my breath. Then - “He fixed my back while he was at it.”

“You’re  _kidding_ me.”

I shook my head. “It feels like… like before.  _I_  feel like before. I mean, just not… not…”

“Not your heart,” Jody said, finishing for me. A few moments of silence. “It worked him over good. Dean. He went into shock, froze on the spot. And Sam, he just scooped you up and ran to the car.”

“Oh?” I whispered.

She nodded. “We put you in the back with Dean, Sam punched it, got us the hell outta there. And Dean just wouldn’t let you go, I kept trying to help hold your wound, but… he had you so, so tight.”

Tears were in both my eyes and hers.

“Kiddo, don’t give up on him. After Cas healed you, Dean was begging him to wake you up, just so he could know for sure you were all there. But Cas said you were in, and I quote, 'Dire need of rest’. Apparently you’ve been burning the ol’ candle at both ends, huh?”

I nodded.

Jody looked at me seriously. “Promise me you’re done with Crowley.”

“Jo, I—”

“I mean it,” she said, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I can’t. Not again. If anything happened to you or the girls—”

“I know,” I told her, and for the first time in our long friendship, I hugged her instead of the other way around. We pulled apart and while she was wiping her eyes, she continued.

“But then Dean started practically climbing the walls, just couldn’t stay. Sam wanted to. There was almost a round two. Glad Cas had hung around, I was just wandering around in a haze by that point. The girls told me they’d taken off while I was in the shower.”

“Back to Kansas?”

Jody gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “Wish I could say.” A pause. “Can I text him to let him know you’re awake?”

“Um…” I thought for a second. I had no clue where my phone was anyway, probably still with my rifle. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Jody nodded, turned briefly to the night stand, grabbed her phone. A few taps, then a  _whoosh_ as the text zipped away. She settled back on her side to face me again, phone between us on the bed. She watched me carefully.

“I don’t have my hopes up,” I told her calmly and honestly.

If I were Dean - after my mistake with Sam, after all the pushing away I’d done, going after Crowley when he’d warned me not to, then after essentially dying in his arms - hell, if I were him I’d be halfway to Alaska by now, fuck Kansas. It was maybe two minutes before Jody’s phone dinged and we looked down at the screen simultaneously.

_O.K._

I went back home, back to a normal routine, back to teaching, even back to a morning jogging regimen. Kept Crowley’s gift on me at all times. Retired the wedding bands to a box at the back of a drawer.

It was a little over a month later while I was in the midst of walking the line at the range, giving the occasional instruction, that I felt my phone vibrate. I couldn’t check it til the end of the session. I’d received a voice mail from Jody.

_Sam came through. Just talked to him, and they’re done with the marathon of dead-end leads Dean insisted they check out. They’ll be at the bunker for the foreseeable future, according to Sam, and it sure as shit sounds like he means business. I’ll pick up your mail for you. Let me know you got there safe._

Dean had only seen me in camouflage and a slutty cocktail dress. And naked. And mostly dead. So it was I found myself once again in a random bathroom, this time closer to the Kansas-Nebraska state line, pants around my ankles.

Except now, I was changing into black slacks that emphasized my waist, very form-fitting, but only to a point. They hugged just the top and a little more than halfway down the curves of my asscheeks before they shot downward with sharp creases, loosening up around my newly re-acquired thick runner’s thighs, growing wider til they almost hit the floor, were it not for a pair of black kitten-heeled ankle boots. I liked how the cuffs swished around my feet when I walked, as close as I’d ever get to a ballgown, no doubt.

And the wide-collared, dark grey button-down I wore on top was just as crisply creased. It resembled a man’s dress shirt, though it was cut just right for a woman’s curves. It was nearly skin tight, only a bit of blousing occurring at the top of the pants. My boobs had shrunk a little, of course, because the universe couldn’t have possibly assigned the weight loss to my hips first, but I didn’t mind. I hated bras anyway, and though I probably still could’ve used one, I opted for a lacy black camisole. And I purposefully left one extra button of the blouse undone. Not for flirting. Only to show I’d retired my necklace. I hoped I’d get the opportunity to tell him it was permanent.

I still rolled the cuffs up my forearms, and I still wore crazily-patterned knee-high socks underneath, and I still couldn’t be bothered to do much more than muted brownish-pink lipstick and mascara. Waterproof, by way of warding off my personal demons. But I left my hair loose how he’d liked it. I’d even used scented shampoo. I wanted to be as put-together on the outside as I desperately wanted to be on the inside. I wanted Dean to see - if Dean would  _choose_ to see me - that I was trying. That I cared. That if he really wanted to go for some sort of normal, then I was in.

I was in all the way.

I got there around eight. The Impala was parked just outside the door Jody had described as the one I’d need to go to. I parked so I wouldn’t block them in, just in case Dean - or Sam - decided to make a run for it.

_At the ready._

_Make a tight fist._

_Breathe in._

_Let out._

_Now knock._

I was standing with my hands in my pockets, half turned away from the door, glancing up and behind me at my surroundings while I waited. I’d been counting; it had been three minutes. Three-thirty. Three-forty-five. Three—

The hinges creaked, and I turned.

Dean stood there with widened eyes but a furrowed brow. His maroon-colored button-down was loose atop a black t-shirt. He was wearing a pair of his darker denim, and the same brown boots as always on his feet. He needed a shave, possibly a haircut.

No. No, not really. He was stunning.

And he was still. Not happy, not sad, not angry, not looking me up-and-down. Just  _there_.

“Hi,” I tried.

Dean met my eye. Then he exhaled a long breath. He still didn’t speak.

“I, uh…”

I was crumbling already.  _Shit_.

I pulled a hand from my pocket and jabbed a thumb over my shoulder towards my car, saying, “I shouldn’t have shown up like this, I guess I was just afraid you’d, ah…” I let out a nervous little chuckle. “That you’d take off. But, um. Still. Bad idea.” Now I looked at my shoes. I felt the wetness coming to my eyes. I nodded my head, still looking down. “Okay. Um. Okay.”

A final nod, from myself to myself, an encouragement I was making the right call. I turned on my heel and headed back up the concrete steps.

Dean jerked me around and into his arms so quickly I almost fell - then suddenly, out of nowhere, I was wracked with sobs.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I put you through that,” I managed to choke out, gripping him as tightly as he gripped me, so much so I thought we might break each other.

Dean sniffled, and when he pulled away to bring his hands up to either side of my face, I saw tears slowly streaming down his. And then his brow knitted together, his face clenched up, on the verge of full-on crying. But he smashed his mouth onto mine, and we fell into a hungry, desperate sort of kiss, both of us letting out hitched breaths as we allowed our pain to ease away.

“You were so cold and pale,” he whispered against my skin, now planting kisses around random spots on my face. “I thought every drop of your blood had come out.”

“Oh, Dean. Oh, I’m so sorry,” I whispered back, putting my hands atop Dean’s, which were still clutching my face, keeping it close to his.

“I thought Cas wouldn’t get to you in time,” Dean said, starting to weep, his voice cracking on his last few words, and there went my tears again as he brought his lips back to me, kissing a trail along my jaw.

This couldn’t keep on. We were going to be piles of goo. I didn’t want to melt down.

“Is the Impala alright?”

Dean pulled back from his kisses, blinked. Another sniffle. He looked confused. “What?”

“Did I ruin your car?”

“Did you…  _what?_ ”

“I’m worried you won’t be able to get all my mess cleaned up,” I replied, the corner of my mouth tweaking up. 

A touch of a twinkle came to his eyes.

“It’s why I drove down here,” I continued. “I’m  _very_ concerned about the condition of that gorgeous hunk of machinery. I’m ashamed of the state I left it in.”

There was that beautiful smile. “Well, uh, that car’s tough. Been through worse.”

“Still. The guilt’s killing me. Can I write you a check?”

“Shut up,” he muttered as he leaned in.

And then another kiss, a deep, slow one, absent of anguish, only filled with desire. Dean pressed against me, pulling our bodies close. I could feel him getting harder and harder.

“Come inside with me,” he said, just like he had so long ago back when we sat in Jody’s driveway, back before we were nearly torn apart.

“Oh, Mr. Winchester. I’ll go anywhere with you,” I told him softly, bringing a hand up and gently brushing hair away from his forehead. Dean’s eyes closed and he tilted his head, kissing the inside of my wrist.

“We’re about to have the place to ourselves, Sammy’s headed out soon,” he informed me as we went in, then shut the door. Grabbing me by the waist, pulling me in again, he added, “So we can make as much noise as we want.”

I grinned as he grasped my hand tightly, pulling me along at a quick pace into his room.

Another one of those slow, deep kisses. Dean ran his hand inside the top of my shirt, cupping a breast through the lace, gently squeezing. I gingerly raised one leg after the other as we kissed, balancing carefully as I unzipped my boots and kicked them away. Then I ran my hands up his chest to his shoulders as he moved on to my other breast, pushing his shirt off as much as I could. Dean went to pull my blouse apart even more, when the next button popped, shooting off and making a  _tink-tink-tink_  sound as it hop-skipped away. 

He met my eye with a crooked grin and a shrug, then removed his shirt. I followed suit, and he tossed them somewhere, moved on to running his hands along my waist. “How do you…” he muttered with a little frown, studying my slacks, apparently disinterested in my top half for now, ready to move on to the next stage of my undressing.

I laughed. “Here,” I said, guiding his hand to the zipper running up the back.

Dean crushed himself against me again as he unzipped and I slid my hands under his t-shirt, stroking his muscular back and looking up into his eyes with I know what must have been a goofy smile on my face. He grinned back, those crinkles at the corners of his eyes making an appearance, and god, I just wanted to plant kisses on them. Unzipped now, he went to guide my slacks down, running his hands beyond the hem of my cami to cup my ass, when he gasped.

“Underwear slows things down,” I explained.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned into my mouth as he kissed me again, pulling me close, hands gently caressing my asscheeks with every swirl of his tongue.

“You’re so hard,” I whispered when his lips moved to my neck.

Then he suddenly squatted, pulling my slacks down, guiding me into raising one foot after the other as he removed them completely, then tossed them over to a chair. He missed. I didn’t give a shit.

The hem of the long camisole landed just barely above my pussy. Dean moved from the squat into a kneeling position, first pressing his face into the fabric, inhaling and exhaling several times. His breath swept under the hem as his face eased lower, and I felt chills.

“I remember this smell,” he said. “I  _dreamt_ of this smell, of this taste.”

And after that last part, Dean’s tongue drug along the creases where my thighs met my pussy, one after another. I let out an involuntary groan, my knees getting a little weak. He gripped the back of my legs and I raised the hem of the cami, holding the fabric up higher, looking down so I could watch every moment. He hadn’t eaten me out last time, we were too spent, only ran his tongue over and around lightly after we’d masturbated for each other. I was getting wetter and wetter just thinking about what he would do now.

Dean’s tongue was flat and wide, pushing aside my puffy lips, dragging it slowly over my clit, then starting over, this time curving to the right, focusing on just that side of my clit, repeating it with the left side, back to running over the top. His hands had gradually moved from the back of my legs around to the front, and he sat back on his heels, looking at my clit so tenderly as he used his thumbs to push my lips up and to the side, exposing it fully.

He gently blew a little stream of air on it. I shivered. He leaned in closer, did it again. My breaths were getting shallow. I felt wetness beginning to seep out of me at an ever-increasing rate. And when Dean put his mouth on me again, he only gave my clit a mild suck before going after it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, wrapping his arms around my legs to steady me, batting my clit up, down, around like a punching bag.

“I’m… I’m… gonna… f-fall… D-Dean…” I stuttered out, reaching down to touch his head and get his attention.

And he planted a hand on my lower back as he rose, the other hooked under one of my knees, spun us both around, letting me sit down on the bed. I laid back, let him keep my leg pushed up and back with his hand, then he was kneeling again, his lips almost immediately latching onto my throbbing clit once more. Then his other hand, goddamn, those  _hands_ , came to my dripping core. I felt his index and middle finger glide in with ease.

“Mmmmm,” Dean growled against me, the vibrations sending a telltale shiver through me.

“I’m so close,” I panted, grabbing onto however much bedding I possibly could. I never came easily, not even for myself. It was a small miracle I’d been able to come for him on my last visit. But just watching him from across the room had made it happen much more quickly. Now I was about to explode.

Dean’s fingers were methodical, prodding firmly but not roughly, a third finger sneaking in gently and it felt so good when he started almost clutching my cunt, his hand curving, the heel of his palm against my taint, bumping it as his fingers went in and out.

My thighs began to shake. I heard myself whimpering. Felt my other leg go up and to the side of its own accord. Dean removed his hand from me, damp against my skin as it moved to help my leg stay back. I felt the quivers building inside.

“Come for me, honey,” I heard his husky voice say, before that long stroke of his tongue went over my clit for what would be the final time. My eyes slammed shut, my jaw clenched to the point of soreness.

Never been a screamer or a wailer, never. Didn’t plan on starting now. It was too porn-y. But god almighty, did a deep groan come from somewhere and I didn’t fully realize it was me until I noted Dean’s mouth was still occupied, gently lapping at my cunt as I came.

Gasping for air, feeling like I was on fire, my eyes still closed, I felt Dean move from in between my legs. All I could think was that there was too much on me, and I was struggling to manipulate the stupid cami over my stupid head.

“Errrrr,” I fussed, feeling a frown come to my brow, still too spent to sit up or even bother to open my eyes.

I heard rustling, a zipper, then Dean chuckled from somewhere nearby. I felt the mattress move, felt his naked body next to me, then he playfully batted my hands away.

“Hang tight, I got this,” he said, remnants of the chuckle still floating over his words.

“Sadists made this,” I stated flatly, my eyes still closed as I let my arms flop out to either side.

Dean laughed, and then I felt the cami rise as his hands ran up my torso, slip under my arms, pulling me up the bed, and then over onto him, as he rolled to his back.

I sat up, finally opening my eyes, looking down at him as I straddled his thigh and took off the last bit of clothing standing between us. His hand had drifted to the small of my back, rubbing it gently, occasionally alternating with slow scratching. He put his other arm behind his head, propping it up a bit, looking at me with a cat-that-ate-the-canary close-lipped smile.

“You look awful proud of yourself,” I noted, tossing the cami… somewhere, who knows.

He responded with a little shrug.

I grinned, then crawled up his body, placed my hands on either side of his face, kissing him til I absolutely  _had_ to stop to breathe.

“Whoo,” Dean muttered, eyes widening, apparently having almost been robbed of his breath, as well. He was still rubbing my back as I eased away. I moved my leg so that I was straddling both his thighs. 

I was looking down at my hands as they slowly ran over his cock, no pressure right now, just caressing, base to tip. The uptick in his breathing let me know I was doing something right. He was still watching my face intently. I could always tell when he was, didn’t even have to look.

“I’d appreciate you thanking your angel friend for me,” I said, now beginning to apply bits of pressure to my strokes here-and-there. I was watching his tip like a hawk for the first sign of pre-cum.

“Whu… wha… huh?” Dean said, and I glanced up to see one of those montages of facial expressions.

I shook my head and chuckled. “You reminded me—”

His eyebrows shot up. “ _What_ has happened in here that could  _possibly_ —”

I gave him a  _look_ , then removed one of my hands from his dick, brought it behind me briefly to pat his hand. “He took away five years of pain overnight. I mean, yeah, the gunshot,” I went on, returning my hand to its current mission.

“Yeah, the gunshot,” Dean repeated in a semi-sarcastic tone, but his eyes were crinkly and sparkling when I glanced at him, which brought a wide smile to my face.

“Well, because, typically I’d prefer you standing or in a chair, so I could have room to fidget,” I continued, moving from my straddle and scooting up the bed on my knees, then turning, my lower back and ass next to his chest, still gently stroking as I went. “But see,  _now_ ,” I went on, looking him dead in the eye, increasing the pressure of my touch before leaving my right hand at the base and putting my left hand on his left thigh.

A sharp intake of breath from Dean.

“ _Now_  I’ve got the right angle. And will absolutely ruin you for other women.” With a wink, I leaned over and plunged his cock a little more than three-quarters of the way down my throat.

A huge gulp of breath behind me. His pelvis actually jolted and the thigh on which my hand rested went into a few small spasms. Incoherent mutterings from behind me drifted to my ear. Dean wasn’t even on the planet, I could tell by the way he was halfheartedly running his hand up my back with no discernible pattern or plan whatsoever.

I hadn’t yet taken him all in. I was determined to do it. It would be a challenge, to be sure, but after all - challenges were my specialty. Focus, concentration, controlling my gag reflex versus letting it control me. Dean was well above average in both length and girth, and I knew from last time the girth had still yet to meet its potential. And I aimed to see what I could do to motivate his cock to be all it could be. Quickly licking his length then distributing the moisture with my hand to give my lips a little more help to slide, I paused at the tip, peppering it with little kisses as I looked back to him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I whispered back in between kisses.

“Yes.”

“This is going to be my favorite thing to do to you.”

I had him completely down my throat in two tries. Dean’s heels had almost immediately come up to flatten against the bed near his ass. I felt his hands disappear completely but then heard them smack against something, I assume the headboard. He was fighting hard to keep from thrusting his hips into my face, I could tell, bless him, so I only kept to deep-throating for a few plunges. I wanted Dean happy, but I also wanted him to fuck me, so him having an orgasm at this point was not on the docket.

I worked the top third of his cock with my mouth, the rest with my hand, rotating and stroking, but not pumping - that would be addressed soon enough. His legs had relaxed and I took the opportunity to gently stroke his balls, the insides of his thighs, when I felt his hips begin to shift closer to the middle of the bed. Then  his hands on my right leg, lifting it and settling it to his right. And then his hands on either hip, urging me backwards as his own hips slid down.

“Ah!” I gasped around his engorged dick, momentarily distracted from my mission as it seemed Dean was on a mission of his own - he’d buried his face in my pussy again, his scruffy face scratching over my bare mound and inner thighs every time his jaw moved to take in more and more, his chin rubbing against my sore clit, his nose pressed against my taint while he plunged his tongue into me, then ran it around the edges of my weeping entrance.

He groaned as I sped up my strokes, increased the sucks, my lips making the occasional  _pop_ as they left his dripping tip, only to go back for more. I couldn’t really take him into my mouth any longer, his girth at its peak, too large to risk the delicate skin running against my teeth. My mouth physically could no longer accommodate his size, and my fingers were only just making contact around his cock.

I carefully disengaged from his mouth, easing off to his left. He helped me settle back, his hand guiding my ass, as I pulled my leg across his chest, turning to face him again. Dean was wiping his hand across his damp chin and mouth as I leaned over, planting kisses randomly across his chest.

“Shit,” he commented, and I glanced up. His hand was still at his face, but now he was rubbing his jawline. “Was this hurting you?” he asked, his expression one of concern.

I felt the corners of my mouth curl up. “In a good way.”

He grinned. “You’re right. You’re ruining me.”

Then both of our faces grew more solemn as we looked at each other. I brought myself up closer, lying on my right side and he did the same, on his left, facing me, reaching up and brushing fly-aways from my face, then letting his hand linger as he came in close, giving me another one of those sweet, slow, soft first kisses.

I brought my left leg up, gently laid it over his hip. He scooted in closer and closer. We didn’t speak. Never took our eyes off each other. Not even as I guided him into me.I was caught off-guard, letting my eyes flutter shut and my mouth fall open a bit, squeezing his shoulder and gasping as he slowly tried to push further inside of me. Seeing it was one thing; stroking it, another; even the blow job didn’t prepare me for this, for the stretch, for the feeling of fullness, and he hadn’t even  gotten close to full penetration.

“Holy shit, holy shit,” I babbled, my voice shaky.

Dean replaced my hand with his, continuing the process. His lips pressed to mine, silencing me momentarily, then he paused - both the kiss and his entry, letting himself ease out - to look at me. “This is perfect,” he whispered. “I don’t want this to stop.”

“It doesn’t have to,” I whispered back. I pulled on his shoulder a bit and he responded, kissing me again as he moved himself to hover over me, to settle between my legs. But before he did was I was dying for him to do----

"At Jody's... when you were talking about what you were, how I didn't know what..."

He looked nervous, pained, so I reached up, stroked the side of his face. "I know who you are, Dean."

A small shake of his head. "Sometimes I don't. And what I _was_ \---"

"What did you tell me? About your soul? You told me you felt this, _us_ , in your soul. And that's all I ever need to know about it." 

Another round of breathless kisses, then Dean and I once more stared at each other as he positioned the head of his cock.

“I wanna do this slow,” I told him, and he nodded. 

We were going to make this last.

Concentrating, his eyes closing for the moment, he pushed past my entry and we both sighed. We were watching each other carefully as he pushed further, never jabbing, never thrusting. I tilted my pelvis as I opened my legs even wider and the angle allowed for a small, but abrupt amount of progress towards my core.

I inhaled sharply, bit my lip; I felt like a goddamned virgin.

“Ssssh, sshh,” Dean whispered. “I got you, baby.”

I willed myself to relax. Then there was more. A little more. More. And finally I felt Dean fully flush against me, completely inside of me, stretching my walls, and already I felt like I was going to float away. He pressed down onto me then, his forearms against the mattress so as not to put his full weight on me. I had one arm around his shoulders and one across his back. We kissed.

“Tell me,” Dean said softly, ever-so-slightly moving his pelvis to-and-fro.

“Tell you what, gorgeous?”

He actually blushed a bit at that. “Pretty to gorgeous, huh?”

I grinned, relaxing even more, allowing him to move freely. His eyes closed, a hiss passed through his teeth, then he looked at me again. Slowly rocking, a barely-there rhythm began to emerge.

“Tell me,” he repeated.

A tiny furrow of my brow. “Tell you  _what?_ ”

Dean sighed against my mouth as he pulled back almost to the point of emerging, his eyes hooded, desire streaming off of him. “Tell me you won’t let anyone else touch you like this.”

“Oh, love. How could I?”

He buried his head between my shoulder and my neck, then he buried his cock in me with one solid push, both of us crying out in unison, gripping onto each other tightly, as his rhythm hit a still slow, but steady rate. It felt like he was growing even larger inside me, my walls contracting, pulling him in with each thrust.

“Tell me we’re not just fucking,” Dean panted into my ear, his arms leaving the bed, now gripping my hips, my ass, fingers digging into my flesh, tilting my pelvis even more, plunging even deeper though it didn’t seem possible.

My hands flew up to his head and I pulled his face up, away from my neck so I could look him in the eyes. I shook my head a tiny bit. I spoke firmly. “ _Never_ with you.”

Dean’s face looked like it was about to crumble, and he smashed his lips to mine, his tongue exploring every bit of my mouth, and mine his, my back arching with ease as I matched his rhythm and we sped up in unison, completely connected and moving as one.

His hands left my hips, his forearms coming to rest beside me higher than before, my new back allowing me to curl up with such ease I could’ve just kissed that angel. Dean’s hands came up to either side of my head. My hands were on his ass, holding him, pressing him into me, encouraging him to pump harder, faster. We were both sweaty and sticky and lost, no longer kissing, just sighing and moaning into each others’ parted lips.

“Are you…” I asked, trailing off.

Dean couldn’t manage even one word, merely nodded.

I removed my hands from his ass, leaving one on his back, sliding the other between us, rubbing my clit vigorously. I was already so close. Just having Dean inside of me would’ve been enough. But I wanted this to be everything for him.

“I want you to come inside me,” I gasped, feeling the orgasm beginning to overtake me.

“Oh fuck oh yes oh fuck,” he chanted as he started to feel me clamping down around him.

I cried out as I came on his throbbing cock, and he groaned moments later, and I felt the pulsing as he spilled over. Dean virtually collapsed on top of me, both of us spent, panting like animals, my thighs still twitching as my orgasm subsided. My pussy ached. My hips ached. But my heart… not there. Not any longer.

Dean started to move.

“No, no,” I whispered, “stay. Just a little while.”

And he did.

Every time we kissed it felt new. That night, the next morning in the shower, then  _that_ night when we made love again. I ended up staying at the bunker for a week. Sam went off to tackle a minor case on his own. We barely noticed.

“This is  _such_ a bad idea,” I said, chuckling.

On another random morning, after breakfast, I still had on Dean’s bathrobe - which I’d essentially claimed as mine - and was standing at the foot of the stairs with my arms crossed, watching him, naked as a jay bird, getting situated atop a towel he’d placed on one of the steps.

It was way too far up the staircase.

“What?” he asked, looking at me with a big smile and wide, innocent eyes.

“Ha! No. You fucking well know 'what’. Don’t put on the act.” I pointed to the first few steps. “Plant your ass there, and your feet on the floor, so I don’t get thrown down a flight of stairs and crack my skull.”

“You don’t trust me to keep a hold on you, that’s what this is,” Dean declared, but he was grinning and doing as he was told, semi-erect and the picture of bliss.

“That is absolutely accurate,” I replied, letting the robe fall to the floor as he took his seat, now much more trustworthy and stable.

Dean stroked himself, eyed me up and down as I came closer. “Wait a minute,” he said as I moved to straddle him.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, for - I swear to god…”

Dean looked at me seriously. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

I went completely numb.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he continued, his tone growing a little gruffer, like he was giving an order. “Hell, I don’t  _want_ you to say it back. Not right now. Or I’ll think you did, because I did.”

I nodded my understanding.

 _Wow_.

After a single, firm nod in acknowledgment, Dean reached out, drew me in, kissed me as he helped guide me onto his lap, then onto his cock.

“This was such a great idea,” I said minutes later, chasing it with a satisfied moan.

I was riding him, able to push off the stairs with my feet for some excellent leverage, grab the railings, and lean back far enough to get a fantastic view of his cock plunging in and out of my cunt. And I wasn’t the only one mesmerized. Dean’s hands were sometimes on my hips, sometimes kneading my breasts, sometimes working my clit, but mostly, like me, he was staring down, watching the point where we connected.

“Told you so,” he replied, catching my eye and giving me a little wink. Then he watched me as my chest heaved and my hips moved in quicker gyrations when he began playing with my clit.

I let go of the rails, scooting in closer to him, draping my arms around his shoulders, using Dean for leverage now. His arms went around my back, holding me firmly while he eased my upper body backwards, leaning forward a bit with me, kissed around my chest, suckled at my breasts til both nipples were beyond erect. I was totally secure. Safe. I wasn’t going to fall.

“I’m not  _falling_ in love with you, you know,” I told him in between heavy breaths.

Dean paused, looked to me with a mixture of surprise and confusion, and perhaps a little hurt, passing over his face before he resumed his kisses. But I began to tilt, wanting to sit up, Dean not hesitating to help me come back close to him with his strong arms, letting me envelop his cock completely once more. I kissed his temple, then an eyebrow, then the sprinkling of freckles to the side of his nose. Softly stroking the back of his neck, trailing my fingers out to his shoulders and repeating the motions as I spoke in his ear. 

“I think I started to love you—”

His grip on me tightened.

“—when you fucked up that hunt.”

A burst of laughter from him, then back to our mild panting for a few moments. That, and the gentle noises of skin slapping together, were the only sounds in the bunker. They echoed a bit off the walls.

But I wondered if he thought I was joking, so I chose to tell him more.

“I was so pissed you’d shot at that thing… til I realized later that there would’ve been no way…” My thrusts sped up. He matched them, driving deeper into me. My thighs began clenching his waist. “I thought I could’ve whipped around in time, hit my knee and gotten off a shot when it came from the side…”

Tiny moans emerged from his lips, his head against me, forehead propped where my neck met my shoulder. His hot breath against my skin made me shiver. I swirled my hips, lifted up a bit, slowly rode his length back down.

“…but you’d seen… knew… knew it would’ve torn.. t-torn… torn r-right… through me…”

We were sweaty, my pelvis aching from grinding into his, the tip of his impossibly thick cock banging into that heavenly spot over and over, undoing me.

“…and you looked at me, s-so… you were so… n-nobody’s ever looked that… sad to have dis… disappointed me,” I managed to gasp out, the trembles in my core beginning to reach, spread to the rest of my body. "…even though… y-you…  _you_ saved  _my_ life.“

"I w-wanted… just wanted you t-to like… like me,” Dean panted.

Our heads tilted towards each other, our eyes were locked, not anywhere else in the world but with each other. I kissed him gently on the lips.We came together. And as we settled, still on those stairs and wrapped around each other, I spoke again.

“Well, I’m sorry about that whole liking you thing,” I mumbled against the side of his head, back to running my fingers over the skin at the nape of his neck.

A small chuckle. “What?”

“I couldn’t help it. Skipping right to love.”

Dean moved his head, looked at me with that glint in his eye that instantly made me ache all over. “Snipes, you nut. You’re not making any sense.”

But I was.

“Dean. You know I can’t pass up the perfect shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


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